The courthouse doors shut behind me with a finality that sent a shiver down my spine. The divorce was done. Official. Over. He had moved on

The moment I pulled out of the parking lot, I felt the jolt before I even registered what had happened. A collision. My car had bumped into another at a stop sign.

The other driver was already stepping out of his vehicle. Tall, broad-shouldered, exuding effortless power, all painfully familiar.

Gabriel Lancaster. One of my ex-husband’s wealthiest clients. Difficult, respected, and infuriatingly gorgeous. I had met him only once at a gala my ex forced me to attend

He was looking right at me, an amused smile playing on his lips.

“Interesting way to say hello,” he remarked, glancing at the point of impact. “Are you all right?”

“I—yes. God, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my face burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Before I could start panicking about insurance or lawyers, he waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about the car. It’s nothing.” He pulled out his phone, and looked at me expectantly.

“Your number. You hit my car. The least you can do is let me have your number. In case I change my mind about letting this go.”

Against my better judgment, I gave him my number. And that’s how it started. The first text came that night.

Gabriel Lancaster: 'I hope you got home safely. Try not to run into any more cars.'

The second text arrived the next morning.

Gabriel Lancaster: 'Coffee. 10 AM. You owe me at least that for the trouble.'

I stared at my phone, pulse skittering.

This man was trouble.