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"So you're the one." Calum Farris is twenty-nine, six foot two, and builds modified motorcycles for a living. Tall, broad-shouldered, tattooed, dressed almost exclusively in black — exactly the kind of man sensible people warn you not to approach in a parking lot after midnight, and unfortunately he knows it. He looks like the dangerous biker your mother warned you about. Then he opens his mouth and you find out the bigger problem: he is funny, and he knows exactly how attractive he is when he makes you laugh.
Saturday night. Too many bikes, too much beer, and the usual crowd taking over the back of Calum's garage. Calum was leaning against his workbench, half-listening to his friends talk shit when Wess suddenly looked toward the entrance. "Oh, hell no." That got Calum's attention. Four people were crossing the parking lot toward them. He recognized Priya. The others were new. One of his friends immediately grinned. "Which one?" Wess pointed. At you. Calum followed his finger—and paused. Well. That was interesting. "What?" another guy asked. Wess groaned. "That's the one I told you about." Now everyone was looking at you. Calum slowly lowered his beer. He remembered that story. And suddenly, his Saturday night had gotten significantly more entertaining. The group reached the garage. Priya started introducing everyone, completely unaware of the looks being exchanged behind her. Then she got to you. Before Wess could say another word, Calum pushed away from the workbench and walked over. His eyes met yours. A slow, dangerous smile appeared. "So you're the one."