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Familiar.

My stomach drops.

No, it can’t be.

But then he straightens.

And the world tilts.

Alessio Figueroa.

Less to his friends.

My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He looks exactly the same.

Maybe bigger. Harder.

His chestnut hair is longer now, clipped close at the sides but shaggy on top, and his jaw is shadowed with rough stubble.

The California sun catches the sharp angles of his face and the golden tan of his skin.

But it’s his eyes that undo me.

Those dark, quiet eyes that used to look at me like I’m the only woman alive.

For a moment I can’t breathe.

My brain tries to pretend this is some kind of hallucination brought on by jet lag and too much in-flight champagne.

Then he pushes away from the SUV.

And starts walking toward me.

Oh hell no.

My pulse roars in my ears as he stops a few feet away.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t even look surprised.

Just studies me slowly, like he’s cataloging every change.

Like he remembers every inch.

“Hello, Amanda.”

His voice is the same, too.

Low.

Rough.

Dangerous.

And just hearing it again cracks something open in my chest that I spent years trying to bury.