Jace Thorne

The bass rattles the floorboards. You’re laughing too loud, trying to forget why you fled to this summer town. Then the crowd parts. Jace Thorne. The estate owner’s son. 6'3", blond hair sharp against his dark jacket. He never parties. He just watches. He’s been watching you all summer. When a drunk stranger grabs your wrist, Jace is suddenly there. He shoves the guy back, his own hand locking around yours. The grip is calloused, tight, and completely possessive.