5. Harrison
CHAPTER FIVE
HARRISON
Monday takes its sweet ass time rolling around. I’ve been itching for this lunch since the second Daisy said yes. I swing into the lot behind The Sin Bin, tapping the steering wheel while I watch the side door. I’m early, but I couldn’t wait another fucking moment to see her.
“Thank you.” She smiles at me, and my cock turns to stone in my jeans.
I grin and lean over her to reach for the seat belt. “You’re welcome.”
I rush around and climb into the driver’s seat. The way she tilts toward me shows off the line of her neck, soft and pale against the seatbelt, and I am instantly, painfully aware of every square inch of her body just inches from mine.
Her delicate scent fills the cab, causing my heart rate to triple. I can’t describe it, but it goes straight to my head. And lower. Goddamn. I grip the steering wheel hard enough to make the leather creak.
I throw the truck into reverse, one arm stretching behind her seat.
I’m close enough to feel the warmth of her skin radiate through cotton.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t lean away, just watches me with those wild green eyes.
This woman could ask me for anything, and I’d crawl over broken glass to give it to her.
I have to clear my throat before I can trust myself to speak.
“You ever been to Mama Marion’s?”
She shakes her head slowly. Her knuckles brush the console, and I swear to God it feels like a kiss. “No, but I’ve heard it’s great.”
“Bouch recommended it,” I tell her as I follow the directions on the map app.
I pull into the tiny lot. There are maybe five parking spots, all cockeyed, and I wedge my truck in next to a Camry that’s been sideswiped more times than I’ve been in the penalty box.
I help her out of the truck and take her soft hand in mine. The place is small, just a couple of red-and-white checked tables, framed watercolor prints on the walls, and about a gallon of garlic in the air.
There’s a blonde hostess stationed inside the front door. She looks up at us and smiles. “Do you have reservations?”
“We do. Stafford,” I tell her.
She grabs two menus. “Follow me, please.” I put my hand on Daisy’s lower back, just enough pressure to claim her, and follow the hostess to a booth in the far corner.
The vinyl is red, but the light is low enough to turn it almost pink. The table is set with oil and vinegar, parmesan in a shaker, and a tiny vase with a single white carnation.
Daisy slides in, and I sit across from her, stretching my legs so our knees brush under the table.
A young guy in a crisp white shirt appears out of nowhere. He’s got a notepad and the build of someone who’s never seen the inside of a weight room.
His voice is nervous. “Can I get you started with anything? Drinks, appetizers?”
Daisy doesn’t hesitate. “Diet Coke, please.”
I look at her, then up at the guy. “I’ll take whatever you have on draft.”
His pen jitters against the paper. “You folks need a minute with the menu, or do you know what you want?”
Daisy barely glances at the menu. “I’ll have the chicken parm. With a house salad and extra breadsticks.” She closes the menu, flicks it aside. “Please.”
Fuck, she’s so goddamn perfect. Food is the last thing on my mind. My cock throbs in my pants, and I have to ignore the fucker.
I don’t bother looking at the menu since food is the last thing on my mind. “Lasagna and a house salad. And another round of breadsticks.” I glance at her. “Just in case.”
The server scribbles, nods, and scurries away like his ass is on fire.
I lean in, elbows braced on the table. She’s already watching me, eyes sharp and bright. There’s a flicker in them, a microsecond of approval she covers by smoothing her napkin.
Then she leans in, elbows on the table. Voice low enough that the whole world shrinks to this booth and the secret tucked in her mouth. “I googled you.”
For a second, I can’t even think. All I can do is stare, heat flooding my face. Daisy Castille. The woman who doesn’t give two shits about hat tricks or highlights. She looked me up.
My pulse pounds so hard I can taste it.
“Why?”
She glances up, finally. Her gaze is sharp, slicing right through me. “I wanted to know more about you.”
Fucking hell. That’s promising.
“Anything you want to know, ask. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Tell me all your deepest, darkest secrets,” she teases.
This is it. “Well,” I start, “I don’t bring out the skeletons in my closet until the third date.”
“Then I’ll settle for the boring old stuff.” She laughs.
“I’m from a little town on the coast of Maine called Smitten Harbor.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. “I looked it up, actually. Your Wikipedia page says ‘quaint fishing village,’ which I’m assuming is code for ‘the middle of nowhere’.”
I laugh. She’s not wrong. “Pretty much. The main street’s two blocks long, and you’ll miss it if you so much as blink.”
Daisy’s stares into my eyes. “Growing up there was… fine. Boring as hell. I spent my whole life planning how I’d get out. And hockey did that for me.”
“What about your family?”
“I have an older brother who’s the police chief, and my parents still live in town.” I give her the bare-bones edition because, honestly, there isn’t much to tell. Before now, I didn’t really have a life besides hockey.
She blinks, absorbing that. No snark, just quiet curiosity. “You close with your folks?”
I nod, not bothering to dress it up. “Yeah. They worked their asses off so I could play hockey. Once I joined the pros, they both retired.”
Before she can respond, the waiter reappears and sets our drinks down, then drops a basket so full of breadsticks the thing sags in the middle. I swear, Daisy lights up at the sight of them. “Oh, man. I could live on breadsticks alone.” She groans and shoves half a stick into her mouth.
Goddamn. Her moan goes straight to my cock. Watching her eat causes my blood pressure to spike.
I tear my eyes off her mouth long enough to take a sip of my beer.
“So, what’s the wildest thing you did in your hometown?” she asks.
I want to impress her, but my real adolescence was a lot less Animal House and a lot more midnight skating on the town pond.
I finally settle on, “Once, when I was sixteen, I dared a buddy to icefish a keg out of the harbor on New Year’s. Tide went out, so did the keg. Whole operation was a bust, but we spent twelve hours freezing our balls off, drunk on water-logged beer and humiliation.”
She actually laughs. “That’s the most Maine thing I’ve ever heard.”
I point my fork at her. “You can mock, but at least we have seasons back there. You people just get ‘hot as balls’ and ‘slightly less hot as balls.’”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure I’d like freezing my bits off half the year.”
I’m tempted to offer to keep her bits warm, but I hold the words behind my tongue. There’s this comfort in the way she owns every opinion, never hedging, always calling her shot.
I let my knee drift under the table, anchoring against the leg to keep from fidgeting. I want to reach across, drag her close, see what she’d do if I just forgot about all the unspoken rules.
Instead, I polish off the last bite and wipe my mouth, giving her a quick, unscripted grin.
She watches, waiting.
The waiter drops the check between us. Daisy’s hand flashes out, but I’m faster. I slide the folder toward me.
I hold eye contact and give her a grin. “It’s my turn to pay.”
Her gaze lingers on me, sharp and searching, but she doesn’t fight it.
I drive her back to The Sin Bin, both of us lost in our thoughts, but the air in the cab is tight with possibility. The city’s doing its thing outside the windows, cars blaring by, sun hammering down, all the usual background chaos. None of it makes a dent.
I park behind the bar, trying to come up with some way to keep the date going, when Daisy turns in her seat and pins me with those green eyes. “You want to see my place?”
My pulse spikes like she just challenged me to overtime.
“Absolutely,” I say. No hesitation, no bullshit.
She reads that in my face, and I swear something flashes in her eyes. I walk around the truck and help her out. She slips her soft hand in mine and leads the way through the alley and up a set of freshly painted iron stairs.
The stairwell is narrow, brick walls closing in on both sides. At the top, she unlocks a heavy door with “PRIVATE” painted in yellow across the black door.
We step inside, and I look around. It’s small, barely enough room for one person.
But the second I step in, it hits me that this place is all Daisy.
Rose fills the air, reminding me of Daisy.
Against the wall, there’s a dark blue couch with throw pillows in colors that don’t match but somehow work.
Across from it is a small wooden bookcase with a small TV on top and shelves lined with books.
Off to the other side, there’s a small table with two chairs.
Light pours in through a window above the sink. There’s a small galley-sized kitchen. Everything’s organized—dishes stacked, mugs lined up like soldiers, plants in mismatched pots by the window.
She stands just inside the door, smiling.
“It used to be a storeroom.” She laughs. “I didn’t want to take on a mortgage while I’m trying to make double payments on the bar, so I fixed up this old stockroom to live in.”
Everything about this apartment screams Daisy. It’s precise and practical, but with flashes of color.
“It’s impressive,” I say, because it is.
Daisy looks up at me, lips ticking up in a half-smile. She’s waiting for something.
I step closer. The floor creaks, and she tenses for half a second, but she doesn’t move. My hand finds her jaw, thumb tracing the line from ear to chin. Her skin is soft, warm, and she blinks up at me, pupils blown wide.
I can’t resist another second. I just kiss her.
The second our mouths meet, the world drops away. My hand slides from her jaw to the base of her neck, pulling her in. She tips up on her toes, lips opening under mine, and everything gets frantic and hot. Her back hits the brick wall with a soft thud. My other hand anchors on her hip.
She fists her fingers in my shirt, dragging me closer. Her mouth is hungry, matching me beat for beat. The only sound is our breathing and the city below.
I tilt her chin, deepening the kiss. Her tongue brushes mine, and my knees nearly buckle. Fuck. She tastes just like Daisy—clean, sharp, addictive.
Her hands move, fingers sliding up my chest, nails scraping lightly. The sensation is electric, driving every thought from my mind.
I bracket her between my body and the wall, careful not to crowd but needing her close. She’s all curves and heat. I press my fingers in, just enough to feel the flex of her body molded against me.
She kisses with zero hesitation, all-in. Her mouth hungry on mine, tongue sliding against my own, nails scraping my chest through my shirt. Christ. Every inch of me goes tight and desperate, cock hard as granite, blood pounding so hard I almost black out.
Daisy shifts against me, grinding her hips into my thigh, and my self-control unravels. It’s a full-body jolt, a bolt of pure, reckless electricity that lights me up from my skull to my toes. I want to pin her here forever, just to feel the way her whole body bows into mine.
But I don’t move. Not until she gives it to me.
She fists my shirt in both hands and tugs, pulling me harder into her.
It’s the kind of invitation I don’t need twice.
Our mouths crash together again, her lips parted, breath hot against my tongue.
My hands roam now, rougher, greedy, memorizing the curve of her ass, the sharp line of her waist, the impossible realness of her, here, wanton and wild in my arms.
Fuck. I’m so far gone for her it’s not even funny.
I break the kiss for a split second, just to breathe. We both gulp air. Foreheads almost touching. The silence is loaded.
Daisy opens her eyes first. There’s no trace of give or surrender, but something in her is cracked, just a sliver. She holds my gaze, steady, daring me to name what just happened.
I don’t say a word as I spin us, leaning my back against the wall to stay on my feet. I don’t trust myself to get words right.
Her chest moves fast, like she just sprinted across the room. She doesn’t look away. “Wow,” she breathes.
“You can say that again.” I thunk my head back against the wall behind me and drag in big gulps of air, trying to get control.