Thorne.
I saw her the second she stepped through the church gates—sundress clinging from the walk, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild around her shoulders.
She was carrying one of her Grandma’s baskets like a good girl, smiling at the old ladies, but her eyes kept scanning.
Searching.
For me.
And God help me, everything in me answered.
I turned my back faster than I should have, pretending to focus on the orphanage kids clustered around the new building plans. Their voices washed over me—excited questions about dorm rooms, class schedules—but I barely heard a word.
All I felt was her presence, like heat at my back, pulling at me the way gravity pulls at water.
I should stay away.
I know that. I’ve known it since the first time I tasted her in my office, since the moment I let
