Page 31 of Saving Saul

Then he opens his mouth again, and that accent—God help me,that accent—hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Alright, everyone, settle down.”

The crowd hushes, but the women still whistle and catcall. I glare at them, my grip tightening around my glass.

What thehellis he doing here?

How long has he been in New Orleans? And why the hell hasn’t he reached out to me?

“Tonight’s best female costume goes to…” He pauses, and I swear I see something flicker across his face. “Ms. Tessa Baptiste as Thumper fromDiamonds Are Forever.”

Oh. My. God.

My stomach flips. My body goes hot. IknowI should walk away, ignore him, make himfeelmy absence like I’ve felt his.

But my feet move forward anyway.

And when our eyes lock—when that devastating, panty-melting smile stretches across his face—I know I’m in trouble.

Because Saul Mensah is not just standing on that stage.

He’s standing inmycity.

And now, there’s no more running.

For either of us.

TIME’S UP

TESSA

The moment Saul’seyes find mine, everything else fades—the music, the laughter, the heat of the crowd pressing in on every side. His gaze locks on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His deep brown eyes, dark as aged whiskey, don’t just look at me; they claim me. They strip me bare, peeling away every layer of distance and resolve I’ve spent the last year building.

And then—he smiles.

That slow, deliberate curve of his lips is nothing short of lethal. It’s not just confident—it’s possessive like he already knows how my body betrays me when he’s nearby. That smile is the one he likely used when he used to whisper across the wall at night, teasing and coaxing confessions and orgasms out of me. Those lips promisedforeverbefore leaving me with nothing but questions.

I should turn away. I should pretend he’s nothing but a ghost from a past I refuse to resurrect. But my feet carry me forward, up the stairs, toward him, toward the thousand-dollar check that no longer matters. The closer I get, the harder it is to breathe. My eyes track every inch of him—the powerful cut of his muscles beneath his Crescent Hall T-shirt, the thick ropes of his bicepsflexing as he shifts. Tattoos trail down his arms, ones I’ve never seen before, and the urge to trace them with my fingertips makes my stomach clench.

He smirks, and I know he sees the war raging inside me.

“Tessa,” he says, his voice sliding over me like warm honey. “That yellow bikini is iconic, love. You wear it well.”

The way he drops the “o” in love—turning it into luv—weakens my knees. It shouldn’t. I hate him.

I swallow the lump in my throat and step forward, my hand reaching for the envelope. But Saul doesn’t just hand it over. He grips my fingers in both of his large, warm, and entirely too familiar hands. The second our skin connects, a jolt of heat zips up my arm, stealing my breath.

“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice is so soft, so intimate, that my chest aches.

I want to yank my hand away. Demand answers. Scream at him for vanishing without a trace. But I don’t. I stand there, trembling like some lovesick fool, my throat tight with a year’s worth of unshed tears.

Then I snap back into reality.

I will not fall for this man so quickly again.

He’s here. He’s safe. Maybe I can sleep again now.

And once I cuss him out, I’ll finally have my closure. But I’m in no state to do that now. With the way my body is heating up, I’d sooner ride his strong, beautiful ass to exhaustion than give him a piece of my mind.

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