MIA
CHAPTER THREE
Katie has this way of staring at me like I’ve just rejected the only medicine capable of saving my life.
She props herself up against the nurse’s station, the stethoscope hanging loose around her neck.
For three days straight, she’s been at me with her so-called gentle persuasion which, honestly, is about as tender as a punch right between the eyes.
I chew on the end of my pen, staring at the shift schedule. "I’m not interested in dating anyone right now." Anyone except the stubborn hockey player who’s been permanently etched in my mind since the hot kiss we shared the night of Harper’s engagement party.
"You need to get out of your own head," she counters, stepping closer. “And stop living like a freaking nun. Marcus Roman is hot.” I roll my eyes as she fans herself. “I mean hot with a capital ‘t’ so stop being difficult and go to dinner with him.”
I groan, dropping my head onto the laminate counter. Katie is relentless, and my defenses are currently held together by caffeine and spite. “Fine. Set it up.” I agree before I’m able to stop myself. What could it hurt to go out with a smoking hot doctor?
The next night at seven o'clock, I’m standing in front of the mirror in my apartment, wondering why I let Katie talk me into this.
I pull on my favorite leather jacket over a dark green sundress and swipe on a layer of dark plum lipstick.
I can do this. I repeat to myself over and over again hoping to make it true.
As I pull up outside The Roaring Crowd, I give myself a little pep talk and park near the front of the lot. I step in the front door and give my name to the hostess. “Follow me.” She smiles and leads me to a booth in the back of the packed restaurant. Marcus stands when I approach.
I wait for something—anything—to happen but I don’t feel a zing or even a little sizzle. The handsome doctor does nothing for me. For a second, I feel a twinge of guilt for wanting to be anywhere else but here.
"Mia? I'm Marcus. It's great to finally meet you," he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm and warm. It’s a nice hand. A professional hand but it doesn't make my pulse jump. Dammit.
"Nice to meet you, Marcus. Katie speaks very highly of you," I say, sliding into the booth. I try to be present. I really do. He’s perfectly lovely. He’s engaging and kind, and he listens when I talk about the chaos of the ER. But the chemistry between us is in the negative digits.
But then the front door opens, and the air in the room shifts.
I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
My body has developed a sort of Mick-radar over the last few months, a biological quirk that I would very much like to have surgically removed.
I feel the back of my neck prickle, a sudden heat blooming under my skin that has nothing to do with the mediocre red wine Marcus just ordered.
I glance toward the entrance, and there he is.
Mick McLinden. He’s not wearing a tuxedo or a hockey jersey tonight, just a dark sweater that clings to his broad shoulders and a pair of jeans that have seen better days.
He looks rugged, weathered, and entirely too freaking handsome.
Beside him is a tall guy who looks like a giant shadow standing next to Mick’s coiled energy.
Mick doesn't see me at first. He’s laughing at something the other guy said, that mischievous grin of his flashing in the dim light.
It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to lean in, to be part of the joke.
I feel a sharp, familiar tug in my chest, a physical ache that I’ve been trying to ignore for months.
"So, Mia, Katie mentioned you’re a big fan of hockey." Marcus asks, pulling my attention back to the table. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the door like a lost puppy.
"I guess I am. My best friend is married to the Knight’s goalie," I manage, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to Mick.
The two men grab a couple of stools at the bar.
Mick scans the room and I can see his entire body freeze when his gaze lands on me.
In that second, the rest of the bar vanishes.
The noise, the music, the clinking of glasses all fades into a dull hum.
There’s a look on his face I haven't seen before, something raw and jagged that strips away his usual composure.
His eyes flash to Marcus, then back to me.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
He doesn't nod. He doesn't smile. He just stares, his intensity vibrating across the space between us like a live wire.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I’ve been trained to stay calm under pressure, but looking at Mick right now feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind screaming in my ears.
"Mia? Is everything okay?" Marcus reaches across the table, his hand hovering near mine. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"I’m fine," I lie, my heart hammering against my ribs. "My five-day stretch at work is catching up with me. What were you saying about the hockey season?"
I spend the rest of dinner in a state of hyperawareness.
Every time Mick moves at the bar, I feel it in my marrow.
Every time he shifts his weight, I notice the way his sweater pulls across his chest. I’m conducting a thorough visual inventory of a man I promised to stay away from, while a perfectly nice doctor tries to tell me about his spoiled Doberman.
It’s agonizing. And I’m in denial. I tell myself it’s just the proximity, the shared history of our friend group.
I tell myself that Mick is a complication I don’t need.
But then I catch him looking at me again.
And it’s not the polite look of a friend, but the hungry, possessive stare of a man who wants to eat me for dinner.
It makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
By the time Marcus walks me to my car, I feel like I’ve run a marathon—naked through a hurricane.
The cool night air hits my face, and I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for two hours.
Marcus is still talking, something about a second date and a jazz club, and I realize I can’t do this to him.
He’s a good person, and he deserves someone who isn’t fighting feelings for another man.
"Marcus, you’re wonderful," I say, stopping by my driver’s side door. "Truly. But I don’t think I’m in the right headspace for this. It’s not you, I promise."
He looks disappointed but understanding, the hallmark of a genuinely nice man. "I get it, Mia. You seemed... distracted. If things change, you have my number."
I watch him drive away, a heavy weight settling in my stomach.
I’m an idiot. I’m turning down a stable, kind doctor for my infatuation with a hockey player.
I drive home in silence, the streetlights of Seattle blurring into long streaks of yellow and white.
My apartment feels too small when I get there, the silence inside an accusation. Fudge I miss Rory.
A few months ago, I set her up with Ryan Coleman, Harper’s brother.
They instantly fell for each other and the next thing I knew, she was moving out to marry him.
I told myself it would be great to have the place all to myself.
Wrong! Without Rory here, loneliness mixed with desire for a man I shouldn’t want is eating me alive.
I don’t even turn on the lights. I just drop my keys on the table and head for the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. My hands are shaking. I lean against the counter, staring at the dark living room, and that’s when a loud knock echoes through my small apartment. My heart stops.
I walk to the door, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
I pull it open to find Mick is leaning against the doorframe, his face shadowed by the dim hallway light.
He doesn't look like the strong silent type tonight.
He looks like a man who has reached his breaking point.
The mischief is gone, replaced by a dark, simmering intensity that makes my knees feel weak.
"Mick? What are you doing here?" I whisper, my voice catching. "It’s really late."
"I saw you tonight," he says, his voice rougher than usual. He doesn't move to come in, but he’s taking up all the space in the doorway. "I saw you with him. Smiling. Laughing. Pretending that you were actually interested in what he had to say."
"I wasn't pretending," I lie, weakly. It’s the best my mushy mind can come up with. "And it’s none of your business who I date."
Mick takes a step forward, crossing the threshold into my apartment.
The air between us is suddenly thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a massive storm.
He smells like the night air and that clean, masculine scent that always makes my brain short-circuit.
He’s too close. He’s in my space, and I’ve never wanted anything more than for him to stay there.
"Bullshit," he says, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I’m making it my business. I can’t fight my feelings for you another goddamn second.
" I back away, my heels clicking on the hardwood, but he follows, his eyes never leaving mine.
I hit the edge of the kitchen island, trapped between the cold marble and the heat radiating off him.
My breath is coming in short, shallow gasps.
I should push him away. I should tell him to leave.
I should remind him why this is a bad idea and why we can't do this. “Mia, I’ll fucking beg you if I have to.”
I look up into his intense brown eyes seeing the desperation shining back at me and all of my resistance melts away.
"This is such a bad idea," I say, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
"It’s the best fucking idea I’ve ever had," he says and reaches out, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. His skin is rough and warm, and the contact sends a jolt through my entire body that makes my toes curl. "I need you more than I need my next breath."
My defenses are crumbling, the walls I’ve built around my heart dissolve under the heat of his gaze.
I’ve been so afraid of the messiness of his life, of the travel and the injuries and the public eye, that I’ve been ignoring the fact that I’m already messy.
I’m already in deep. I’ve been in love with him since the night we met, and the rejection was never about him. It was about my fear of getting hurt.
Damn. I realize I need him, too. "So what are you going to do about it?" I ask, the words barely a breath. My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised he can't feel it through his own chest.
Mick doesn't hesitate. He leans down, his forehead resting against mine for a brief, agonizing second. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, the scent of him filling my lungs until there’s no room for anything else.
Then he closes the distance. The kiss isn't gentle. It’s not a ‘just friends’ kiss. It’s a claim.
It’s desperate and hungry. His tongue sweeps against mine, demanding entrance, and I give it freely, my hands fisting in the fabric of his sweater to pull him closer. I want to be part of him. I want to disappear into the heat and the strength of him until there’s no Mia and no Mick, just this.
He groans low in his throat and the sound vibrates through my chest. His hands move down my back, his palms hot through the thin fabric of my dress, before gripping my thighs and lifting me onto the kitchen island.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him into the V of my thighs, the friction of his jeans against my center making me gasp into his mouth.
Everything is too much and not enough at the same time. I can feel his cock, thick and hard, pressing against my pussy through the layers of our clothes. I want to feel him skin-to-skin. I want to feel the weight of him on top of me until I forget my own name.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his breathing heavy and ragged.
His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide with desire.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters in the world, and for the first time in my life, I believe it. “I can’t believe I’m stupid enough to put a halt to this but I want to do it right.
” He steps back putting a tiny bit of space between us.
“What do you mean?” I attempt to catch my breath and get my brain functioning.
“I want to take you on an actual date. I’m not in this for the night Mia, I fucking want you forever.” He leans over and places a soft kiss at the base of my throat.
Oh. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths trying to get myself under control. Damn. How did I ever resist this guy? The rest of my resistance fades away.
“When did you have in mind?” I groan and he leans over to softly kiss my lips.
“Are you free tomorrow night?”
“I’m supposed to wash my hair tomorrow night but I guess I can put it off if I need to.” I laugh up at him.
“Fucking hell.” He helps me off the counter. “You’re going to keep me on my toes.”
“You can bank on it.”