Behind the front desk at The Palmetto Rose, I have watched the Dane brothers fall one after another and checked in most of the women who fell with them.
I know what loving one of those men costs, and I wanted none of it.
Then Clint Dane arrived with nothing but a canvas bag, an unmentioned brother who did not come looking for a favor.
He neither charmed nor chased; he only looked across the counter and asked what I would be doing if I were not standing there.
A drifter who has spent his whole life leaving met a woman who has spent hers afraid to go, and he still saw every part I had hidden behind a polite smile.
I had every intention of keeping my distance from a Dane, and he simply waited until I could not.
