If not for the bustling noise of the crowd, anyone standing within five feet of Mason Dillinger would have easily heard the two halting, roughly drawled words that slipped slowly past the tightening line of his mouth.
"Oh, shit."
Perhaps not the most erudite of phrases, but what it lacked in eloquence it more than made up for in conviction. In fact, in Mason's opinion it summed the situation up to perfection.
After all, it wasn't every day that one of his kind found his life mate in a throng of jacked up caffeine addicts. Five seconds ago he'd have sworn that it could never happen—that a woman who had been created as his perfect match, the other half of his self, even existed—but there was no denying what that scent was doing to his head, not to mention his quickly thickening body parts.
"Hell," he muttered under his breath, reaching down with one hand to rearrange himself, pulling the edge of his flannel shirttail in front of his bulging fly. "I'm screwed. ...
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