“Thanks,” Becca said gratefully. “This place is always crowded.”

Zeke St. John was maybe more handsome than Hudson, at least in the classic sense, with dark hair and grayish eyes and a chiseled jaw. He didn’t smile when Becca appeared, but the look Hudson sent her was warm. Amused. As if he could damned well read her mind.

Which was ridiculous.

She couldn’t really recall what she said after that. It was idle chatter on her part, though she asked a few pertinent questions, then soaked in the information Hudson offered about himself to dissect later. She learned that he had just finished his first year at Oregon State University in business, as had Zeke. They were both heading back to school in a couple of months, and Zeke was spending the summer working for his dad’s auto parts business, while Hudson was working on his father’s ranch near Laurelton, one of the far western suburbs outside Portland.

Becca herself was playing gofer at a law office, delivering coffee, making photocopies, answering the phones during lunch hours. She was due to start school at a local community college because she didn’t have enough money to leave home just yet.

After their “chance” meeting, Hudson called Becca. She could still remember how sweaty her palms had been on the telephone receiver. He asked if she wanted to go with him to see some mindless comedy at a local movie theater, and she jumped at the chance. All she recalled of the film was Hudson’s profile and some equally mindless conversation about the staleness of the popcorn, the lack of fizz in the sodas. And the fact that he called her out.