A honk of a horn makes me damn near jump out of my skin, but a search in the rearview confirms that no one is behind me. It’s the arrogant fucker next to me, somehow desperate for my attention.
And my still pointing North dick wants to give it to him.
I don’t glance over at his first honk, or his second, nor do I look when the distinct click of a door hitting my car door comes next.
Bastard. If he’s left a mark, he’s paying for it.
My passenger door opens before I can get to the locks, the click of the door freezes me mid-breath. For a second, I think I’m imagining it until the cabin fills with his scent.
Mint.
Sweat.
Fucking trouble.
The traffic light dangling overhead flicks to green.
It’s a quiet night in Cedar Rapids, and there’s no one around us in any direction at the junction, but he leaves the door open, and his car’s still idling, so I can’t just pull away like I’d planned.
“Playing hard to get, Babycakes?” His Texan drawl is evenmore pronounced in the dim light of the car than it was in the din of the rink.
He leans over, and activates my phone screen, holding it in front of me until it unlocks. He’s close enough that his breath skims my face. My pulse stumbles, but it’s adrenaline, not attraction.
His brow furrows as he types—presumably to put his number in my directory since I didn’t accept his contact.
I turn away, not because I’m embarrassed, but because it’s like staring at the sun, and I don’t want to get burned.
He’s quiet until I give in and look at him. He gives me an exaggerated wink that’s charged with every ounce of southern charm the Martinez boys are famous for, then cuffs my jaw. “That’s alright, Sugar. I don’t mind chasing.”
Heat shoots straight to my groin. I should shove his lingering hand away from my face. Instead, I sit there almost leaning into him, every nerve screaming for more.
He puts my phone back in the dock, leaves my car, and drives away into the night, leaving me sitting at the now red again light. Did that really happen? Did I imagine it?
I look at the contacts list and can’t find Xavier’s name, but another pass shows a contact called “Goal Daddy.” I can’t stop my face from cracking into a smile.
My thumb hovers over the delete button, but something deep inside doesn’t let me erase him from my phone. Responsible men don’t keep numbers from men like him. Responsible men delete temptation.
And still, my thumb doesn’t move. Because there’s no harm in keeping his number even if I don’t plan to use it… right?
CHAPTER4
Xavier
“Xavi?” My brother Roman nudges my foot under the table a little too hard, making the silverware on top of the table clink. “Earth to Xavier?”
I swear I can still smell his cologne under the steakhouse garlic—smoky cedar and stubbornness.
A hand waves in front of my face, and I don’t even reach out to flap it away.
My heart’s still skipping along too fast in my chest, those piercing, bottomless brown eyes staring at me in the dull light of the front of his SUV.
When I continue staring at the glass of iced water I’m delicately spinning between my forefinger and thumb, my brother clears his throat.
“Are you dying?” His voice is sharp, and pierces through the fuzzy haze of whatever warmth that’s engulfed me after my evening of encounters withthe Dark Destroyer. He didn’tfeeldark, though. Not on the ice when he loomed over me and not in the car when my fingers itched to touch him.
Dark implies cold, distant, aloof. That man… well, he’s anything but cold.
Every time I blink, I see that stare, and my stomach free-falls like I’m going over the boards head-first. I snort. “Am I… dying?”
