She jerked the door open, and Scars grinned down at her, all sexy-hot muscles and devastating charm. He was wearing well-worn jeans, a tight blue t-shirt that made his eyes stand out in that hard, scarred face even more, a jean jacket, and his Road Devils cut on top. In one hand, he held a large pizza box; she saw a bottle-shaped paper bag tucked under his arm. He was so achingly huge and strong, and the way he just towered over her in her bare feet made Zoe feel impossibly feminine and fragile.
“Hey, beautiful,” he drawled. “How you doin’?”
“Don’t call me that, Scars,” she snapped, hating the jolt of desire in her stomach. “I told you that already.”
“Wasn’t talking to you, Zoe, so stomp down on that monster ego.” Scars stepped into the house, and she sniffed appreciatively at the delic
