The vibrant bustle of the London luxury department store seemed to fade into a muffled, distant hum. For Ken, the air grew instantly cold, thick with the phantom scent of a downpour he had tried for months to forget.
He stood entirely paralyzed, his fingers tightening around the edge of his sketchbook until his knuckles turned as white as his silver hair. Mikael stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He looked exactly as he had in the States—tall, effortlessly aristocratic, with perfectly styled blonde hair and tailored clothes that practically radiated old money. But the absolute composure he usually maintained was fractured. His blue eyes scanned Ken's face, wide with a mixture of disbelief and sudden vulnerability.
