Chapter 3
Chapter three
Amber
Nick was serious about the ten minutes. It’s almost that, down to the second, when I hear a soft tap on my door.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I open it and whisper-exclaim, “It is you!”
Nick blinks and glances behind him like he expects me to be talking to someone else. “Me?” He points to his chest.
I nod, grinning despite myself. “I recognized the photo on your driver’s license.”
“You did?” he asks, smiling a little like he’s not sure whether to be flattered or terrified.
“I see you in the mornings,” I say. “Getting your newspaper.”
Recognition flickers in his eyes. “That’s me. I know you too. Jogging with your son in the stroller.”
“See?” I rock up on my toes, a small, breathless laugh escaping me. The fear that had been heavy in my chest slowly drains out like a slow exhale. “We aren’t strangers. We’re neighbors.”
“Exactly.” He nods, his smile widening. “Only three houses between us. It took me like—” he glances at his watch “—one minute to get here.”
For a second, we just stand there in the doorway, the winter air curling around our ankles.
He looks different at this distance, taller than I realized, shoulders a little broader, his dark hair still damp from the shower.
Handsome, which I already knew, but dangerously handsome now that he’s right in front of me. He smells clean, like soap and mint.
He’s nervous. I can tell by the way he shifts his weight, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket like he’s not sure what to do with it.
It hits me all at once.
This is real.
This is the man from the walkie-talkie.
The voice that made me laugh and blush and forget about the world outside my living room.
“Um,” Nick says quietly, eyes searching mine. “Hi.”
It’s such a simple word, but it lights up my chest like someone reached into the dark and flipped a switch—warm, immediate, disorienting in the best way.
“Hi,” I whisper back. Then I remember he doesn’t even know my name. Nerves buzzing, I extend my hand. “I’m Amber.”
“Amber,” he repeats softly, like he’s testing the shape of it on his tongue. He reaches for my hand, his skin warm and a little rough as his fingers curl around mine. “That’s a pretty name.”
His eyes sweep over my face, not in a rude way, but with quiet curiosity.
“I’ve only seen you from a distance,” he admits. “It’s…nice seeing you up close. You look exactly like I thought.”
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Hopefully that’s a good thing.”
“It is,” he says immediately, then clears his throat like he said it too fast. “Yeah. Definitely.”
I let go of his hand and step back a little, my hand still clutching the doorknob like I need to hold on to it for balance. “Well…do you want to come in?”
Nick hesitates, not in a way that feels uncertain, but in a way that feels respectful. Like he’s giving me one more chance to change my mind.
“You sure?” he asks. “It’s late. And…I meant what I said about you being careful. It’s okay to tell me no.”
Something in my chest loosens.
This man who crossed the street for me, literally, just asked for permission twice.
“I’m sure,” I say softly.
His shoulders drop, just barely, as if he’d been holding his breath. He steps inside, carefully, looking around my living room with quiet curiosity. He lifts the big yellow toolbox he’s carrying.
“I brought my tools,” he says. Then, with a smirk and a wink, he adds, “Don’t worry. I packed my biggest screwdriver.”
“Oh, my God,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “I still can’t believe I said that.”
There’s the clink of him setting the toolbox down, then his hands are warm around my wrists, gently pulling my fingers away from my eyes.
When I look up, I catch the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, how one curl of dark hair brushes his ear, how his brown eyes spark with humor… and something softer.
He is technically a stranger, but he feels familiar. Maybe because I’ve seen him on the sidewalk in the mornings with a hoodie, messy hair, and sleepy smile, or maybe because sometimes you meet someone and something in you whispers: Oh. It’s you.
My gaze drifts to where he’s still touching me. His thumb brushes my knuckles once, absentminded, or maybe not, and the contact sends a shiver sliding down my spine.
I’m almost disappointed when he lets go and steps back.
“Well,” Nick says, rubbing his palms together, “let’s see if we can save Christmas.”
He smiles, and it hits low and warm in my stomach.
Suddenly, I’m not just hoping he can fix a bike.
I’m hoping he doesn’t leave when he’s done.
I’m hoping, desperately, that he puts his hands on me again.
Nick walks past me, taking his clean-man scent with him.
It trails behind him, brushing over my senses like fingers on bare skin.
I inhale before I can stop myself. Butterflies erupt low in my belly.
They riot, traitorous, impossible to ignore.
Heat unfurls there, a shock of awareness that has absolutely no business being this strong.
For a split second, I actually sway toward him.
Nope. Not happening.
I swallow hard and yank out my phone, partly to text my cousin Gwen, mostly just to get a grip. My thumbs fly across the screen like they’re trying to outrun whatever chaos is happening in my body.
He glances back, eyebrow raised.
“Just texting my cousin that so far you don’t seem to be a serial killer,” I say brightly, giving him a reassuring smile so he knows I’m joking. “She’s my safety person. I told her I’d text when you arrived and again in an hour. She’s an ER doc, working the night shift, so she’s up anyway.”
He nods, genuinely approving. “Good. That’s smart. Tell her I’ll be on my best behavior.”
My stomach flips, almost disappointed because part of me doesn’t want him to be on his best behavior tonight. No, I want the opposite of that, which is dumb. Reckless.
He kneels on my living room rug, flipping open the battered yellow toolbox like he’s about to perform heart surgery.
The Christmas tree lights cast a soft glow over everything, the scattered bike parts, the instruction manual I gave up on hours ago, and Nick himself, who looks unfairly good in a gray T-shirt and jeans that are definitely too fitted to be legal at one in the morning.
“This thing came with, like, four thousand bolts,” I say, crossing my arms mostly so I don’t reach out and touch him. “It’s practically an aircraft.”
Nick picks up a long metal rod, inspecting it. “Ah, of course. The classic model: the child-size Boeing.”
I laugh, a small, light sound that feels like it lifts something heavy off my chest.
How does he keep doing that? Making me laugh?
It’s like his superpower or something.
“Okay,” he says, tapping the manual. “Step one: assemble the…uh…” He frowns. “Do bikes have spines?”
“They do now.”
He grins and brushes his hand through his damp hair, and I have to look away before I openly stare. His forearms flex when he reaches for the wrench. They’re tanned, lightly muscled, a little veiny in a very unfair way.
“Step two: use the provided spring-nut bolt,” he reads aloud, eyes narrowed at the instructions, walking through each step like it’s life or death.
Something tightens low in my stomach. God help me, I’ve always had a thing for a man who takes control.
I swallow. Too loudly.
“You okay over there?” he asks, still not looking up.
“Mm-hm.” Nope. Not at all. Not okay.
I lower myself onto the couch, pretending the cushion isn’t directly across from him like a front-row seat to the hottest late-night bike building ever performed.
He kneels forward, piecing parts together, and the hem of his shirt lifts just enough to show a sliver of skin. My eyes are drawn to it like a magnet.
Oh, I’m in so much trouble.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat, “have you assembled many bikes, or is this just one of your hidden talents?”
He glances up, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hidden talents? Should I be flattered?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you good at multitasking, Saint Nick?”
A slow smile spreads across his face, the kind that makes my breath catch. “I can be.”
Heat rolls through me. I press my knees together.
He tightens a bolt, leaning closer to the frame. “But, uh…if you’re asking whether I’ve built bikes before, the answer is yes. Had to put together my sister’s kids’ stuff since her husband’s been away. Dollhouses, scooters, all sorts of Christmas emergencies.”
“That’s nice of you,” I say. “Doing that for her.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his ears turn a little pink. “It’s taught me a lot about patience. And duct tape.”
I laugh again. He glances up at the sound and smiles as if he likes hearing it.
He hesitates, then adds softly, with no bravado at all, “It’s good practice for…you know…if I ever get to be a dad someday.”
My heart stutters at the vulnerability in his voice. “You want to be one? A dad?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.” He nods once, eyes flicking down to the bolt he’s tightening. “Someday.”
I should stop there. I really should, but curiosity elbows its way to the front. “Ever come close?”
He exhales a small laugh. “Close-ish. I had a girlfriend for a long time, six years. We lived together. We talked about marriage, but…you know how it goes.”
“Bad timing?” I guess gently.
He nods. “She got an amazing job offer in London. I’d just started my company.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t leave. She couldn’t stay…” A small, helpless shrug. “Life happens.” He gives his shoulders a small shake. “That was a couple of years ago.”
There’s a softness in his tone that makes me like him even more.
“You started your own business?” I ask, circling back to that part of his story, impressed despite myself. “I thought you were an actu—acturory?”
He laughs at how I butcher the word. “Actuary,” he corrects gently. “It’s a small firm. I started with just four employees. Now we’re up to twenty. It’s not glamorous, but, hey, someone has to calculate the risks of trampolines and rollerblades.”