Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
JULIE- FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
Saturdays are sacred, at least according to my sister Jamie, who calls them my "romanticizing life" days.
She isn't wrong. Coffee, a visit to the bookstore, maybe fresh flowers from Whole Foods.
And if Seattle is feeling generous and not dumping rain from the sky, I might even sit outside somewhere and pretend my life has a soundtrack.
Today's plan is simple: Barnes & Noble, two hours minimum, which is basically heaven for me.
I'll likely leave with two books I don't need, one I absolutely do, and a card or journal that I'll put in the bin in my hall closet, which my mom calls my hidden treasure.
I can't help it that I'm a sucker for beautiful stationery, cards, journals, and pens. No regrets.
I'm locking my apartment door when I hear a throat clear. "Morning."
I know who it is before I look up because my body has apparently decided to become deeply embarrassing about the man in 3B, my new next-door neighbor.
Tall, dark hair, easy smile, the kind of man who looks unfairly good in a henley and jeans.
I glance over and immediately in my head I hear Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman saying, Big mistake. Big. Huge.
And yeah, it was a mistake to look without bracing because he's leaning against his doorframe, all broad shoulders and casual confidence, smelling insanely good, something with amber and musk that makes me feel some type of way.
I swear I'd climb this man like a rock wall if given the chance.
I've certainly thought about it multiple times at night with my vibrator, which is why I can feel my face flushing right now.
"Um. Hey. Morning," I say, fumbling with my keys because apparently my hands forget how to operate when the hot guy from next door speaks to me.
His smile deepens, and damn it, he definitely noticed.
God, I hope he's not a mindreader, because if he knew the way he's popped into my head every night for the last two weeks, the way I've had to take care of myself because of the fantasies I'm having, I'd have to move to Timbuktu.
But no, it's okay, he's not looking at me like the too-horny girl from next door who can't stop thinking about him at night even though I don't even know his name. He’s smiling, but not in a wow you’re filthy or what the hell is wrong with you kind of way. Phew. Seriously.
"Do you have big plans today?" he asks.
Okay, small talk. I can do that. I nod. "Huge."
"Robbing a bank?"
"Barnes & Noble."
He nods solemnly. "Probably more expensive."
I laugh before I can stop myself. "True facts."
"Have fun committing financial crimes against your own budget."
"Sadly, I always do."
For half a second, neither of us moves, like we're both waiting for the other person to do something. We're three weeks into this dance, and somehow we still haven't even exchanged names, just smiles, brief conversations, and then nothing.
"Well," he says, pushing off the doorframe. "Have a good one."
"You too."
He unlocks his apartment, and I head for the stairs with that familiar twist of disappointment in my stomach.
It's clear our pleasant hallway moments are going absolutely nowhere, which is too bad, because there's something about him that makes me feel literally hot inside.
But maybe it's better this way. Maybe my vibrator and I are having more fun than I'd ever have with him in real life.
God knows that statistically speaking, that's been my experience with men, and even though I've never been nearly this attracted to someone before, it doesn't mean my body would cooperate in real life. Oh, big, body-rocking, man-induced orgasms of my extra spicy book collection, where are you?
My Jeep is parked in my assigned spot, and I throw my bag onto the passenger seat before starting the engine.
I pull out of the lot and onto the side street that leads to the main road, already thinking about coffee and shelves and the quiet bliss of ignoring my phone for a few hours.
I reach for my seat belt, which I absolutely should have done before I started driving, but I’m going ten miles an hour, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.
No sooner do I think this than the dark Porsche 911 GT3 in front of me stops.
Not slows down. Stops. My foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late.
The front of my Jeep kisses the back of his bumper with a sickening crunch that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor.
Fuck. Seriously, fuck my life. I sit there for one frozen second, hands shaking on the steering wheel, mentally calculating how much it costs to repair a car that probably costs more than my entire apartment building.
My mother is going to kill me. Not because of the accident.
Accidents happen. She’ll say that first, very calmly, right before reminding me that she spent years drilling defensive driving into my head and apparently I retained none of it because I was too busy fumbling with my seat belt like a distracted dipshit.
The driver’s door opens and the driver steps out.
Well fuck my life, again. Because seriously.
Of course he’s gorgeous. Apparently the universe has decided today is the day I humiliate myself in front of not one but two beautiful men.
Maybe I can go for the trifecta and embarrass myself with a third guy later.
That’s definitely how this day is rolling out.
Porsche Guy is tall and blond, with hair that catches the morning light like he’s in a goddamn shampoo commercial.
Dark jeans. Crisp white button-down. Silver watch.
The kind of watch you see in magazine ads featuring men who smoke cigars, own yachts, and say things like “my people will call your people” and mean just that.
I force myself out of the Jeep. “I am so sorry,” I say, walking toward him on legs that feel slightly unreliable. “I wasn’t paying attention, and when you stopped?—”
He looks up. Blue eyes. Damn. The kind of blue that makes you think of every clichéd thing people write song lyrics about. He really has it going on. “Fucking squirrel,” he says.
I cock my head in confusion. “What?”
“A squirrel darted in front of my car. I had to brake fast to avoid the bushy-tailed fucker.” He smiles, and it's devastating. “I didn’t realize there was someone behind me. I’m sorry.”
“You’re apologizing to me?” I point between us. “I hit you.”
“But I stopped pretty suddenly.” He crouches to inspect the damage. “Looks like we both got lucky.”
There’s a small scratch on his bumper. Barely visible. Nothing on mine. Still, it’s a Porsche. A scratch on a Porsche probably costs more than oral surgery. “I have insurance,” I say quickly. And after today, a premium that'll be in the stratosphere, I'm sure.
He stands, and suddenly he’s very close. Close enough that I catch his cologne. Vetiver and citrus and something warmer beneath it. “What’s your name?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Your name.” His smile widens. “I figure if you’re going to hit my car, I should at least know your name.”
My cheeks heat. “Julie. Julie Nelson.”
“Asher Stevens.” He holds out his hand.
I take it. His palm is warm, his grip firm without being aggressive. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re not hurt?”
“No. I’m fine. Just mortified.”
“Don’t be.” He’s still holding my hand. “Accidents happen.”
I pull my hand back. “Usually to people who wear seat belts before leaving the parking lot.”
His mouth curves. “Reckless.”
“I know. Lock me up.”
He laughs, and the sound does something dangerous to my common sense.
“I should probably let you get on with your day,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
Oh. Holy shit. Wow.
I look at him. The blue eyes and too-perfect not to be styled hair.
The expensive watch and designer clothes.
The Porsche with my Jeep’s calling card scratched on the bumper.
He’s out of my league in every measurable way.
But he’s looking at me like I’m fascinating.
Like he isn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else.
“Where were you headed?” he asks.
“Barnes & Noble in Northgate Station.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He leans against his car like we’re old friends catching up instead of strangers exchanging insurance information after a minor collision. “What are you getting?”
“I don’t know yet. My plan is to browse and see what appeals.”
I'm a lady. No way can I tell him a filthy shifter romance is already calling to me.
“Best way to do it.”
I smile. “You’re a bookstore person?”
“I’m a bookstore, coffee, and sit there and read a chapter while I ignore life person.”
“Okay, that was weirdly specific.”
“It’s the best kind of Saturday.”
I like that answer.
He glances down, and his expression shifts. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Are you seeing anyone? Interested in anyone? Spoken for? Married?”
My heart does a weird stutter-step. “Um. No to all of the above. Why?”
He gestures to the small diamond ring on my left ring finger.
“Oh.” I lift my hand. “No. This was my gram's. I need to have it cleaned, so I’m wearing it as a reminder to do that. And considering I've been wearing it for two months, the reminder isn't working," I laugh. "Guess I should follow through.”
“Ah.” His smile returns. “Perfect.”
“What’s perfect?”
“That you’re not taken.” He says it like the answer is obvious. “Because I’d like to take you to dinner.”
I stare at him. “I don’t even know you.”
“Not yet.” His smile is warm, steady. “But that’s kind of the point of dinner, isn’t it? Getting to know each other?”
Yeah. I've read too many thriller books and watched too many murder mysteries to jump at the offer.
Stranger danger is a thing. I don't want to wind up on a Netflix documentary where they try to solve my disappearance, never figuring out that I wound up trapped in Hot Porsche Guy’s basement being reminded to put the lotion on so he can take my skin.
“How about this,” he says, noticing my hesitation. “Let me meet you at Barnes & Noble. We can get coffee. Talk. Get to know each other a little. Then maybe, if you don’t think I’m completely insane, we can discuss dinner.”
“Okay… but for the record, that is still a little insane, actually.”
“Sure. But in a charming way.”
“You think? Seems kind of like a bold claim.”
“I’ve been called charming before.”
“Yeah, I just bet you have,” I say, the sarcasm in my tone evident.
He grins, and I hate that it works on me. A car passes slowly, the driver craning their neck to look at us. Right. Accident. Public road. Reality. I glance at his bumper again. “We should probably still exchange insurance information.”
“Definitely.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number.”
“That is not how exchanging insurance works.”
“It’s how this version works.”
I try not to smile and fail. Then I rattle off my number, and watch as he types it in. A second later, my phone buzzes.
This is Asher. Don’t rear-end anyone else on the way there.
I laugh. “I’ll try my best.”
“See you in twenty minutes, Julie Nelson.”