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Thyme for Love

By Pamela S. Meyers

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The kitchen door opened, and I came face to face with a ghost. Not a Scrooge’s Christmas Past kind of ghost. More like the Ghost of Long-Lost Love. Bronze complexion, espresso-dark eyes, and hair as black as licorice, Marc Thorne looked as gorgeous as he had when he’d walked out of my life the day before college graduation.

Limp as overcooked pasta, I gripped the island’s granite counter, its rock-solid support my only hope of not toppling off my three-inch-too-tight heels. Why now? I opened my mouth to speak but a vice-like grip on my chest had squeezed out every ounce of air.

He took a step toward me, and a whiff of his citrus-like aftershave tickled my nose. Thankfully he wasn’t wearing the spicy fragrance I’d always liked. One sniff of that stuff and I’d have been transported back to a time I preferred to keep dead and buried . . .

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