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Then I dry off and pull my wet hair up in towel before adding a thick layer of moisturizer. Next, I yank on my best jeans and a pale blue sweatshirt that’s so soft, it’s basically emotional support clothing. I pull the towel off my head and stare at my reflection. My hair looks like I spent the night wrestling a tornado. Ouch. I brush it out and spend the next twenty minutes blow-drying it. Once it’s mostly dry, I twist it into a high ponytail and let the curls riot however they want.

At five thirty, I’m sliding behind the wheel of my little blue compact, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I pull out my phone, punch in his address, and the maps app immediately starts giving me directions in the crisp, male British voice I chose.

Seattle’s outside, wet and sullen, but there’s nothing gloomy about the fizzing energy in my veins. My pulse is straight-up out of control.

I crank the heat, crank my music, and head out.

CHAPTER SIX

MICK

I hear the elevator’s mechanical sigh reaching my floor. I take a deep breath and walk over to the door. Fuck. It’s been the longest goddamn week of my life. There’s a pause, then the knock and I open the door. Fuck. She’s stunning.

She’s wearing a blue sweatshirt and faded blue jeans that hug every line of her curvy legs. Her hair is up in a riot of curls, and her face is naked except for a swipe of something on her lips that’s the exact color of ripe peaches. I want to lick it off her.

“Hi, trouble.” I reach for her soft hand. “About time you got here.”

“Hey,” she says, all faux-casual, but I can see the way her pulse jumps at her throat. “I’m five minutes early.”

“It’s been eight thousand, two hundred and few minutes since I last saw you.” I step back, give her room. “Way too fucking long.”

“I can’t believe you calculated that.” She says as she brushes past me. The smell of her—lavender and something I can never quite name—hits me dead center. My brain short-circuits. I have to fist both hands to my sides to keep from just pulling her in and mauling her right there.

“I had to do something to occupy my time.” I tell her as she looks around my apartment.

“Nice place.” She says it with a smirk, like she’s expecting sterile hockey-boy chic.

“Make yourself at home.” I watch her scan the room, taking in the exposed concrete, the minimal everything.

“Thanks.” She moves like she belongs here, dropping her keys on the kitchen counter, toeing off her sneakers by the door.

“You hungry?” I ask.

She grins, a flash of those white teeth. “Starving.”

I motion her toward the dining table. “Have a seat and talk to me while I plate our dinner.”

“Do you need any help?” She glances over at me.

“Nope. I can handle this.” I wink at her as she sits, crossing her legs at the ankle.

I fill her wine glass full of the fancy Cabernet that Jaxson, the smug fucker, recommended. “I hope you like this.”

“Thanks.” She takes a big sip of the wine and watches as I plate the food.

“This looks great.” She tells me as I place the plates on the table.

“Fingers crossed.” I mutter and drop into my chair. “My grams would roll over in her grave if I fucked it up.”

We dig in and eat for a while without saying a word. After a while, she glances over and catches me watching her. “You’re staring, McLinden.”

No use denying it so just I shrug. “I can’t help it. You look fucking gorgeous.”

“Suck up.” She laughs and digs into her meal. I fucking love watching her eat. I almost choke on my next bite when cock turns to stone in my jeans.

While we eat, she talks about her last shift. There were five car accidents, two cardiac arrests, and a twelve-year-old who set off the fire alarm in the ER with a vape pen all before midnight. I tell her about the last Knights’ game leaving out the part where I played like shit because my mind was fucking occupied with her.

We finish dinner and she stands up, stretching. I watch as the sweatshirt rides up an inch, exposing a line of soft skin at her waist and I nearly come in my goddamn pants.