Neutral Zone Kisses (Seattle Knights #3)

MIA

CHAPTER ONE

This is the best freaking champagne I’ve ever tasted.

Jaxson didn’t spare any expense planning his proposal to my bestie, Harper.

I’m three glasses deep and working on my fourth, the stem of the flute cool against my palm.

The only person more buzzed than me is Harper, who’s holding out her hand and making sparkly jazz hands every time someone glances at her new ring.

Jaxson is sitting next to her, stoic as a mountain, looking at her like she personally invented the concept of happiness. They’re not even pretending to play it cool.

The table is crowded with empty dessert plates, coffee cups, and the casualties of several toasts.

I’m busy cataloguing the disaster zone when the chair to my right pulls out, scraping over the stone floor, and Mick slides in without warning or apology.

I don’t need to look up to know it’s him.

The size, the quiet, the way the air shifts to accommodate someone who always moves like he owns the perimeter.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just picks up the bottle and tops off my glass, steady and precise.

Our hands brush on the stem. Two seconds, maybe less, but it’s long enough to make me forget the punchline of whatever snarky comment I was about to deliver.

I freeze. So does he. The contact is nothing.

It is accidental and circumstantial, static in the system.

But my heart spikes like I’ve been handed a live wire, and from the way Mick’s jaw tightens, I’m not the only one pretending it’s no big deal.

“Thank you.” I manage to breathe as he lets go. His arm comes to rest on the back of my chair but not touching. Just there, marking territory. I can feel the heat of him even through the layers of my dress and cardigan, which is honestly unfair.

“You’re welcome, baby” Mick breathes, low and under his breath. The sound is oddly intimate, and I look up at him and immediately regret it. He’s staring right at me, head tilted, like he’s trying to read the fine print of my soul.

I take a gulp of the champagne hoping to cool some of the electricity flowing through me.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mick says, voice pitched for just the two of us. His mouth is so close I can smell the faint trace of whiskey.

“I don’t have anything to say,” I say, side-eyeing him. God. I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself.

He nods and sits quietly beside me. There’s a lull, a beat where neither of us speaks. I’m too aware of how our knees are almost touching under the table. I bounce mine once, then force it flat, crossing my ankles.

Mick shifts, facing me more directly, his shoulder crowding into my space. The cuff of his sleeve is unbuttoned and there’s a fresh scrape on his knuckle. His jaw flexes when he speaks again, and the light from the fireplace throws a thin, pale scar along his chin into relief.

“So. What’s your verdict?” he asks.

“On what?”

He gestures loosely around the room. “The proposal. The ring. The happily ever after.”

I let my eyes roll up and left, a calculated show of consideration. “Proposal was a seven out of ten. Ring is a seven-point-five. We’ll have to wait and see how the happily ever after plays out.”

He grins. “You grade tough.”

“You asked.” I shrug and take another sip of my champagne.

“What made you give those low scores?” He sits back and stares at me waiting for an answer.

“Well,” I give him a shrug. “The ring is beautiful but way to big for my tastes. I work in a hospital, so I tend to like smaller with more meaning. You know like an antique with history.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this, but the champagne has loosened my tongue so here we go.

“And I’m also not a fan of big, public displays. ”

“It wasn’t really that big of a display.” Mick reminds me. “Just a few of their closest friends and her brother.”

“That’s still too many people for me. I want a private proposal and a small intimate wedding.” Why am I telling this stranger about my ideal wedding? I’m going to blame it on the champagne.

Harper’s laughter erupts again, and for a second Mick’s attention snaps back to she and Jaxson. I take the opportunity to breathe. My fingers drum a quick rhythm against the base of my glass before I catch myself and stop.

The conversation circles, the champagne flows, and the world outside the big picture window goes from blue dusk to black in the space of three hours.

At some point, Mick stands up to flag down another bottle, and when he comes back he sets it in front of me like a dare.

He pours, careful not to spill a drop, and the bubbles climb in the glass like they’re trying to reach escape velocity.

“You’re wasting your time on me. I’m not going to get drunk and hop into bed with you.”

He tilts his head. “I’m not trying to get you into bed.”

I’m not going to lie; a little part of me is disappointed. “Good to know.”

“But I might be trying to get you to agree to a date.” His eyes turn serious, low and honest. For one weird, destabilizing second, I want to lean in and taste his lips. Instead, I knock back the rest of my glass, feeling the champagne hit my system all at once.

When I set the empty glass down, Mick’s hand covers mine. Warm, steady, completely still. For a moment the rest of the room disappears, and I can feel is the weight of his hand, the absolute certainty of it.

I look at him. He looks at me. No one moves.

“I’m not looking to date anyone.” I mutter. My life is way too busy right now to add in a spoiled athlete who needs his ego stroked.

Then I pull my hand back, careful, like disarming a trip wire. “I have to be up early,” I say, which is mostly true. Tomorrow is my day off, but I have a ton of housework and laundry to do.

Mick just nods. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and the simplicity of it undoes me a little.

Harper calls across the table. “Mia, you going already? We haven’t even started the real celebration.”

“You’re three glasses ahead,” I say suddenly jealous of the happiness radiating from her. “I’d never catch up.” Pull your shit together. I tell myself.

She blows me a kiss, then gives me the double eyebrow raise again. Mick stands, waiting for me to gather my things. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t hover. He just waits, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The evening winds down around us. I take a small step, and for a second, I’m unsteady—not from the champagne, but from the realization that I want him to keep holding my hand. I want a lot of things I’ll never say out loud.

But I take my purse, square my shoulders, and let him lead me out into the soft, pine-scented night.

As we walk to the car, neither of us says a word. It’s the kind of silence you could cut and serve for dessert.

I keep my hands wrapped tight around my purse strap, so I don’t do something incredibly stupid, like reach for him first.

Mick’s car is black, spotless, all sharp lines and brushed steel. He opens the passenger door for me, waits until I’m inside and buckled, then circles around to the driver’s seat and slides in.

He starts the engine, and for a second the only sound is the low click of the dashboard lighting up. There’s a bare whisper of jazz playing under the hum of the heater. He glances at me, confirms I’m good, then puts the car in drive and pulls out of the resort.

We don’t speak for the first ten minutes.

I just watch the trees blur past in the dark, headlights sweeping over moss and cedar.

My hands start out folded, then migrate to crossed arms, then drop to my lap, fidgety and uncertain.

I can feel the flush of champagne in my cheeks, a slow-burn warmth that will probably last until morning.

He drives one-handed, the other relaxed in his lap, except at the tight curves where both hands flex around the wheel and the sleeve of his jacket pulls back enough to show the thick white scar on his wrist. I want to ask how he got it, but I don’t.

There’s a crackle of streetlamps as we leave the woods behind. The city glows ahead. Since it’s so late traffic is light. The roads are wet and shining. We don’t talk again until we’re within sight of my building, a mid-rise in a fairly decent neighborhood not too far from the hospital.

He finds a spot right out front, kills the engine. Then he just sits, hands on the wheel, looking out through the windshield like there’s something crucial waiting for him in the dark.

“I can make it from here,” I say and reach for the door handle.

He reaches over and places his hand on my knee. Heat and electricity flow through me and I feel that light touch all the way down to my core. “I’ll walk you.”

“That isn’t—”

“Stop arguing,” he says, and I give up because I’m too tired to fight him. Or the crazy feelings being this close to him cause.

He opens his door, walks around to open the passenger door for me.

He takes my hand and helps me out of the car.

As we walk up the sidewalk, he matches his stride to mine, easy and natural.

The night is wet and cold, but I don’t feel it.

When we reach my door, he stops close enough that I can smell the sharp, clean edge of his cologne.

We stand there, neither of us moving. I want to say something, but words are not my strong suit right now.

Then he does the thing. He leans in, careful and deliberate, and kisses me. Holy mother of god. My brain shorts out like a cheap string of Christmas lights.

Mick kisses me slow and deep, no hesitation, taking his time and absolutely owning my mouth.

His lips are soft, warm, but there’s a low growl in the back of his throat that turns my insides molten.

I fist my hands in his jacket, desperate for something to hang on to, and lose myself in the taste of whiskey and stubborn, impossible man.

He slants his mouth over mine, tongue teasing, coaxing, until I open for him and he takes everything I have left.

My knees go weak. There’s not an ounce of distance between us, chest to chest, and I swear I feel his entire body lock down like he’s fighting the urge to toss me over his shoulder and carry me inside.

I don’t even try to hold back. My body makes the call before my brain can veto. I kiss him back, reckless and hungry and starved.

He rewards me by pressing in, one big hand sliding around to the small of my back, pulling me close until I’m practically floating. “Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

I’m the one who steps back first. My hand comes up to his chest, flat and firm, and I can feel the solid heat of him under the fabric. I hold him there, not pushing, not pulling. Just anchoring myself. Damn. Talk about leading him on. I’m the queen of mixed signals right now.

I look up. I meet his eyes. “Mick,” I say, and it sounds more like a confession than a name. “I’m not… I’m not interested in anything.”

He just stares down at me with narrowed eyes. “That kiss didn’t feel uninterested to me.”

“It was a moment of weakness.” I admit. “And you’re one hell of a kisser.

” I attempt to lighten up the moment. The rest sits between us, thick and unfinished.

“Look. I’m not looking for any relationship right now.

Much less with a professional athlete. I’ve seen what Harper had to deal with and I’m too busy to deal with all that. ”

He just stands there, all patience and restraint.

He opens his mouth and shuts it again without speaking a few times before he finally mutters. “If that’s how you feel.” He steps back giving me space. “I’ll see you around.”

He just gives me a half-smile that’s sadder than anything, nods once, and walks back down the hallway.

I let myself in. The door swings shut behind me with a weighty click, and a little kernel of doubt fills me.