My gaze rose to the strong set of his chin, forever darkened with a day’s growth, but only a day’s worth. His mouth was truly one of his most spectacular accomplishments. It had the gentle fullness of passion, as though he’d just made love. As though he’d just satisfied some fortuitous woman’s deepest desires. I continued my perusal to the straight line of his nose, neither too thin nor too wide with a tilt at the very tip.

But the most startling aspect of the entire encounter? His eyes. He often wore dark shades that hid one of his best features. When he didn’t, the effect was breathtaking. He had gold flecks in his deep brown irises that sparkled beneath impossibly long lashes. They complemented his sculpted mouth and the hard set of his jaw to perfection.

Not that I was obsessed with his looks or anything.

Stepping so close to him was comparable to being within the reach of a jaguar’s jaws. It was exhilarating and terrifying. I had no idea what he was exactly, but he was damned sure not dating material, no matter how tightly his molecules were wound.

Thankfully, he rarely looked at me. The sideways glances he did grace me with were mostly filled with anger and a seething kind of resentment. I had yet to discover what that was all about, because despite his acrimonious scowls, he was interested in me. I felt it leap out of him when our eyes met. Like now.

It was such a rare event, it caught me off guard. Our gazes locked for the briefest of seconds as I walked past. His nearness seized my lungs. Sent tiny shivers up my spine. Scorched my skin. And his interest shot straight to my very pinkest parts.

Our shirt sleeves brushed as I hurried by him, and I tried not to let the fact that he sat, once again, in Francie’s section bother me. I’d never felt that spike of interest when he looked at her. Or anyone, for that matter, including the menfolk, thank goodness.

But why the animosity? Why the searing glares and seething ire? What had I ever done to him? Probably not nearly as much as I’d like to.

Again, confusion where Mr. Cranky Pants was concerned gripped me. I bolted out the front door and headed toward Mr. Vandenberg’s store, fighting the desire to look back inside the café for another peek.

Cool air wisped around me. It was a welcome refresher after being burned alive. But in my haste to get past him, I’d forgotten my coat. It was worth it, though. We’d almost touched. My shoulder almost brushed across his, and I realized he hadn’t been wearing a jacket either.

This time, anger shot through me. What was he thinking? It had to be thirty below out. Or thirty above. Either way, it was freaking cold. But he shows up in a light rust-colored T-shirt, one that fit snugly across his broad chest and tapered down to accentuate his lean stomach, and jeans, loose across his hips but tight enough to show the exquisite definition of his shapely ass.

Another thing I’d figured out about myself pretty early: I had a thing for asses.

He’d catch his death, especially since his hair was slightly damp. He’d just showered, his scent clean and earthy like lightning in a rainstorm.

I fanned cold air over my face, waved at a store owner across the street, then almost stumbled when I got to the entrance of Mr. Vandenberg’s antiques shop. I took hold of the handle and let the pain I felt – the same pain I’d felt earlier – wash over me. The sensation was not a welcome one. It clenched my stomach. Spun my head. Weakened my knees. And it was coming from inside the shop.

I peeked in the window, raising a hand to shield the sun, to make sure the coast was clear. It looked clear. Mr. V stood at the register, his shoulders tense, his gaze a thousand miles away. Behind him sat a man I didn’t recognize. He was thumbing through a magazine, his booted feet propped on the counter, aka, clue number one that something was amiss.

That counter was over a hundred years old. Mr. V treated it like it was family. He was very particular about food and drink in his store in general, but nothing, absolutely nothing edible was allowed on that counter. And there sat a brute of a man with muddy boots flung on top of it.

I squeezed the door handle and fought the urge to turn tail and run. It was none of my business. Whatever Mr. V had going on was none of my concern. I couldn’t get involved with others’ problems just because I could sense them. Or the effects of them. Even if I did get involved, what could I do? I didn’t even know my own name. How could I help others when I couldn’t help myself?

I couldn’t. Involvement of any kind was out of the question. I’d deliver the sandwiches and call it good.

I raised a barrier around my heart, pushed open the door, and entered as nonchalantly as possible.

When he glanced up, the weight of Mr. Vandenberg’s stress, of his agonizing emotional pain, hit me like a brick wall. It ripped into me. Punched me until I almost doubled over.

I set my jaw and forced one foot in front of the other. “Hey, Mr. V,” I said, my voice a husky shell.

“Hey, Janey. What do I owe you?”

I couldn’t help it. I had to test him. After a quick survey of the brutish man sitting behind him, I put the bag on the counter. The counter on which no food was allowed to sit.

Mr. V said nothing. Nor did he do anything besides open the register. His normal response would have been to snatch the bag off the counter posthaste for fear of an oil spot. Instead, the brute stood and opened the bag to rummage through it. He took out a sandwich, then closed it again, never even glancing my way.

“Janey?” Mr. V asked.

“Sorry, twenty-seven even.”

He nodded and dipped shaking fingers into the till.

Another man walked in from a back room, spotted me, and almost turned around. The brute barked at him.

“What did I tell you?” he asked. In Farsi, his Middle Eastern accent thick.

Seven. Farsi was the seventh language I knew, counting English. As tourists from all over the world came into the café, I would listen to their conversations, and every single time I understood them. I had yet to hear a language I didn’t know – but I remembered nothing of my past. How was that even possible?

The other man wore coveralls, the knees and elbows dirty as if he’d been digging, and he had an ax in his hand. He eyed me from underneath thick eyebrows that knotted in suspicion, his too-lean features stark in the low light.

“We are through,” the man said, his Farsi hinting at a northern Iraqi upbringing. “We will need the plasma cutter tonight.” He said the words plasma cutter in English, and the brute’s gaze snapped toward me to see if I was paying attention. I’d already taken the opportunity to take an extreme interest in an antique necklace Mr. V had in a display case beside the register. I sighed longingly.

Appeased, he tossed the bag to his partner and jerked his head in a silent order to leave. The brute, who was not so much tall as beefy, then turned his attention to his own sandwich.

Mr. Vandenberg handed me two twenties, trying hard to control his shaking fingers. He was one of those middle-aged guys who seemed much older, mostly because he was thin with slightly graying hair. The fact that he wore outdated wire-rimmed glasses and a bow tie didn’t help either. He lived for all things nostalgic.

“Keep the change,” he said, his gaze suddenly pleading. He wanted me out of there and quick.

“Thanks.”

More voices wafted over from the back room. They were muffled, so I had a hard time making out what they were saying. All I caught was something about a support beam. It needed to be restrengthened? Reinforced. It needed to be reinforced. Another spoke about a metal pipe. There seemed to be something blocking a route.