I met him when my ship was sinking, and I clung to him through the storm. Little did I know he needed me as much as I needed him. The first time I saw Roman Dante King, he stuck out like an odd puzzle piece that got mixed up in the wrong box. It wasn’t his blue eyes in the dim light of the bar, the tattoos that covered his arms and hands, or even his arrogant personality. It was something else—something I couldn’t see—that told me he didn’t belong in our small beach town on the Oregon coast. . . READ MORE