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her light brown hair that had escaped in charming disarray from the bun fastened on top of her head. There was something familiar about heryet Mike was certain he'd remember if he had met this woman before. Her poor lips were so dry. . . . |
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Still holding her, he worked his water bottle from his belt and, after awkwardly unscrewing the cap, held it to her mouth. She stirred and gasped, swallowing involuntarily. Water ran over her cracked lips, and as her tongue appeared from between them to lick at errant drops, her eyes opened again. |
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This time they stayed open, catching his. Her smile seemed painful, but her eyes softened in an apparent pleasure to see him that incredibly, inexplicably, made his heart soar. Until she spoke. |
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"Arlen," she whispered in a cracked yet pleased-sounding voice. |
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Mike started, his excitement plummeting. How would this strange, barely conscious woman, in the middle of the desert, know of his connection to Arlen's Kitchens? He replaced the lid on his water bottle while he waited to see what she would do. |
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More alert now, she stared at him, puzzlement etching her brow. "You're not Arlen, are you? But . . ." She stopped. The expression on her lovely face looked so crestfallen and confused that, just for a moment, Mike wished he were anyone she wanted him to be. |
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Inside, he laughed sardonically at himself. Where had the cautious, suspicious nature he'd |
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