7
Maybe the Anneliese MacDonald he had known had faded to black-and-white in his memory, maybe she had blossomed, but the fact remained that she had become a woman, the most beautiful one Hugh had ever seen. His heart had thundered in his chest when his eyes landed on her, framed by the oak double doors.
If he had found her beautiful and enchanting from afar, face to face he had no words for what she made him feel.
He tried to assimilate all the changes in the exuberant technicolor display but it was too much to take in with a single look—or even in a single day.
She wore black toreador pants under a dark-red velvet cropped long-sleeve shirt which could have been modeled after some Spanish bullfighter clothing, but for the soft threads dangling from it and teasing his eyesight to feast
