Hana closed her eyes, willing the awful minute over. She felt a breeze and caught a hint of Logan’s aftershave; a gorgeous muskiness mingled with sweet meadows and summer. Her body reminded her how it felt on the steps of her house with his arm around her, conspiring to show her what she’d lost. What she always lost. She battled a sense of overwhelming distress and lurched for the door, dragging the poster behind her.
It ripped, tearing the fearsome Māori face from hair to neck. Rage obliterated all other emotions, carrying her through like a current of salvation and immunising her against hurt. Hana’s green eyes flashed danger and she shoved at Logan’s chest, meeting a rock hard wall of muscle. He snatched up her fist and bent her arm upwards, pressing it against the rough shelf behind.
