“Shay?” His voice was strained with disbelief. He leaned back, and his weight shifted, pressing his lower body against hers. A finger touched her hair and then brushed her face, like a blind man searching for proof. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He was supposed to be out of the country, as usual, trying to save the world from deranged dictators and terrorists.

“I thought someone had broken in. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Stillness settled around them again. The only movement, breaths mingling, chests moving in unison, and was that a stirring of another sort, lower? The memories started a fresh assault. She shoved against his shoulders. “Get off me.”

“Sorry.” The weight lifted, and he helped her to her feet. She yanked free, using the five steps it took to reach the light switch to compose her face. She’d always wondered what she would do if she saw him again, what she would say. What he would say. She’d never pictured it happening like this. Her hand hovered over the switch. Drawing in a steadying breath, she flipped on the light, squinting at the brightness, and turned. Her mouth dropped open.

The essence of him was still there; the boy next door who’d kept her secrets, bandaged her scrapes, and comforted her against his scrawny chest, but there was nothing scrawny about him now. He was tall, with broad shoulders and lean muscles undisguised by his soft gray T-shirt and worn jeans. Dark hair brushed his collar, giving him a rugged, dangerous look. His face was still stunning. Strong jaw, straight nose, and those intense hazel eyes that even at nineteen had tempted married women to watch as he walked past. Her gaze caught on the scar above his eyebrow, a trophy from the motorcycle wreck when he was sixteen, and she remembered the terror of finding him sprawled on the rocky hill, so still she thought he was dead.