Page 1 of The True Garza

CHAPTER One

“What’s in that jar?”

Lonny

The chime goes off abovemy head as I enter the liquor store.

Five steps in, I halt when a familiar face emerges from the beer aisle.

It’s him.

The man I spent the last year trying to force out of my head. The man who rocked my mind—and body—in a way no other man ever had. The man who, for seven days, drowned out my sorrow, dulled my pain, and made meforget.

As he strides to the cashier with a six-pack of beer, I allow myself an eyeful of him. He looks as good as I remember, if not better.

Tall, broad, muscled, formidable, tawny.

Unbelievably handsome.

“Excuse me,” a customer mumbles, brushing past me.

Hetoldme he was from LA, but moving back here, I hadn’t considered the possibility of running into him. Flashes of the torrid week we spent together plays across my mind like a reel.

As if he senses my stare, he turns his head in my direction and fixes his dark gaze on me.

I wait for recognition to slither across his features—for that sexy, flirty grin that had been used like a weapon against me to touch his lips—but all I get is an arched brow. His demeanor is unwelcoming, and he’s as approachable as a venomous snake set to strike.

He doesn’t remember me.

Of course, he doesn’t. Our affair was over a year ago. There have no doubt beenmanymore since me. I remember him as vividly as if it were yesterday because he’s the last man I was with. And, well, that face…it’simpossibleto forget a face like that. Also, when a man rocks a woman’s world the way he did mine, that’s not something she ever forgets.

Still, something about his damn near glaring at me the way he is right now, without so much of a hint of recognition, stings. Those seven days spent with him are the most unforgettably amazing seven days of my life. Sure, it was just a fling, but it wasmagical. He showed up at a time when I’d desperately needed to feel something other than pain, if only temporarily. He was, at the time, everything I needed. It meant something to me.

Now, under the heat of his glare—a glare that makes me feel as if I’ve offended him somehow—it’s clear that it had meant nothing for him.

Having suddenly forgotten what I came here for, I spin around and start for the exit.

I’m almost out the door when two masked men storm in, driving me back inside with a gun to my face. “Everybody down! Now!”

Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’ve only been back here a day. All I wanted was a bottle of Johnnie Walker—oh,nowI remember what I came for.

“Down, bitch!” one of the men barks at me.

Hands up, I slowly lower to the ground.

Skinny. Lanky. Shifty blue eyes. Smells like corn dog and motor oil. A .38 caliber revolver in his left hand.

He breezes past me and advances to the cashier.

The second man remains by the door.

Stout. Under six feet. No gun. Ballistic switchblade in his right hand.

“Everything in the register! Now!” the first man shouts at the cashier.

I let out a sigh. I really don’t have time for this.

Glancing towardhimfrom across the room, I watch as he glares at the back of the man’s head in a manner that conveys he doesn’t appreciate being inconvenienced. He’s the only one, aside from the cashier and the two robbers, still standing. No matter how much the vandal shouts and waves his gun around,hedoesn’t budge. He just glares with an air of boredom and impatience.