GRAPHITE ANDERSON
Felicity quaked in his arms. Despite the fact he knew they were in the safest place in Vegas, he couldn't quite bring himself to let her go.
They'd been calling her the Honey Lady, and she might be amazed to know that he and Obie had discussed their mystery baker at length.
Ever since she'd set up shop a month ago, they'd proposed theories about her origins that involved the Witness Protection Program or the Underground, a covert group that scurried women and children away from their abusers and gave them new lives.
Her polite distance, her lack of friends, the way she arrived at work from different directions and always parked in different places—all spoke of someone in hiding.
Speculation, of course.
Mostly, though, he and Obie argued about who would get the last of the woman's to-die-for honey cinnamon rolls.
