Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
HAZEL
At ten minutes to one, I juggle a still-warm pie dish and my messenger bag as I make my way down the long hallway leading to Nonnie’s apartment.
Without knocking, I nudge open the door with my elbow, fully expecting Nonnie to be hunched over the dining table, reading glasses on, reading the Sunday paper.
What I do not expect is for the hallway to be filled with the sounds of a man’s laugh. Or for that laugh to belong to a six-foot-something man who’s been starring in my dreams lately. My heart kicks into overdrive when I see him sitting at Nonnie’s table looking way too comfortable.
I freeze and stare, wondering if I just stepped into the Twilight Zone.
The first thing I notice is his shirt. It’s not a suit, or even a collared shirt, but a blue crew neck that hugs his arms and his, um, everything.
He’s even more devastatingly attractive out of business clothes.
His hair is slightly messy, and his jaw is dusted with stubble, which shouldn’t make a difference but, for some reason, does.
It’s all I can do not to melt into a puddle of goo right here in Nonnie’s entry.
Nonnie looks up from pouring tea and waves the mug like she’s directing traffic. “Hazel, darling! You’re just in time. Come meet my new friend.”
He stands, pushing back from the table with more grace than a man his size should have. His eyes, blue and sharp, lock right onto mine. The exact same eyes that looked through my soul in the lobby. The smirk returns, smug and knowing, and I realize he definitely recognizes me.
I try to remember how to walk. “Uh, hi?” is what my mouth settles on.
Nonnie beams. “Hazel, this is Preston Voss. He’s new to the building, and he rescued me and my groceries a few days ago.” There’s an extra sparkle in her eye, like she’s plotting something. “He’s an architect. Isn’t that neat?”
Preston’s gaze slides over me in a slow, clinical assessment. “Nice to finally meet you, Hazel,” he says, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s still picturing our previous collision.
I try to set the pie on the counter, but my hands are unsteady, so it lands a little harder than planned. I wince as the ceramic pie dish creaks. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you, too.”
There is no earthly way Nonnie does not know about our run-in last week. She’s being way too casual, which means she’s plotting. Grandmothers are genetically engineered for this.
I glare at Nonnie, but she just beams even harder, like she’s already picturing grandbabies. Preston doesn’t take his eyes off me—not even for a second. The air between us crackles. It’s not fair. He’s not even pretending to play it cool.
I take a deep breath, trying to get my thundering heart beat under control. No luck. Not with him standing this freaking close to me. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since the day I crashed into him in the lobby. Not exaggerating—not a blessed minute where he isn’t there, haunting my dreams.
This man has basically colonized my entire nervous system.
It’s a silent invasion, too. Every time I close my eyes, it’s those hands, those eyes, that voice.
Even now, standing way too close to the man, my brain is cycling through every single fantasy I’ve ever had about him.
Spoiler alert: most of them are not suitable for Sunday lunch.
And now that I know his name? It’s going to be even harder to erase him from my mind.
He gives me a look. Like he can see right through me. And honestly? I’m not surprised. I’m pretty sure my thoughts are flashing like a freaking neon sign on my forehead.
Nonnie breezes through the awkwardness, motioning for us to sit. “Come, come, let’s eat before everything gets cold.”
She’s set the table with her good plates, a sure sign she’s matchmaking, and I end up sandwiched between her and Preston, who’s close enough that I can feel heat radiating off his arm.
The meal is classic Nonnie. She made roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, green peas, and her famous lemonade. We serve ourselves and make small talk, the clinking of forks against plates covering the fact that I am absolutely dying inside.
“So, Hazel,” Preston says, pausing mid-bite, watching me across the table with his warm smile. “Your grandmother tells me you’re a librarian.”
Thank God. This I can do. I sit up a little straighter, hands folded primly, like I’m prepping for a story hour with rowdy first graders. “Yep. I work at the Worthington Hills Downtown Branch.”
His deep, rolling laugh slides under my skin. “I've always liked libraries. The way old books smell.” He gives a little shrug, eyes never leaving mine. “My mom used to say it was like bottled nostalgia.”
Every word from his mouth sends little sparks shooting down my spine. I can barely swallow. My body is awake and humming, all my lady parts snapping to attention and singing his praises like a gospel choir on Sunday morning.
“Are you from around here?” I blurt out the first question that comes to mind.
He shakes his head. “Born and raised in California. But I moved out here for work.” He glances at Nonnie, who is beaming at both of us like she’s just played a masterful chess move. “I opened up my own firm with my best friend.”
“Very nice.” I hope my response is appropriate.
Because who knows? My brain hasn’t functioned properly since the moment I walked in the door.
I’m basically a walking disaster. Every cell in my body is screaming, and Preston’s sitting so close his knee bumps mine under the table.
I swear, I feel it everywhere. Like my skin is stretched too tight, and there’s a live wire running straight from him to me.
He grins, then takes a bite of chicken and lifts a cloth napkin up to his lips. I watch the motion like I’m in a trance. My mouth goes dry. My thoughts are definitely not safe for lunchtime conversation.
Nonnie is full-on enjoying herself, asking Preston about his favorite foods, his hobbies, what he likes to watch on TV, and every answer makes my brain short-circuit a little more.
Because Preston’s voice is low and deep, each word vibrates through my bones.
He steals glances at me every other sentence, and it’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes.
My cheeks go up in flames, and I can feel my pulse in my toes. My chest gets tight, and my skin prickles all over every time I glance at him.
I stab at a bite of scalloped potatoes and bring it to my mouth.
I should be enjoying my favorite meal, but I barely taste a thing.
Which is a shame, because Nonnie makes her potatoes with like, half a pound of cheddar and enough garlic to ward off every vampire in Texas.
It’s criminally good. But I’m too busy counting the seconds until Preston bumps my knee again under the table to register anything else.
Preston’s knee nudges mine again, this time on purpose, and I almost drop my fork. The jolt goes straight through my body, lighting me up like a Christmas tree. I freeze, but my knee doesn’t move. Neither does his.
Under the table, our knees are pressed together, like this is some kind of secret game only we’re playing. Except it’s not much of a secret because my face is probably red enough to signal a rescue helicopter from space.
I try to focus on the food. I really do.
But my brain is all static and Preston. How is it physically possible for one man to take up this much space in my mind?
Every time I sneak a glance at him, he’s already watching me, eyes hooded, mouth ticking up at the corners like he’s pleased with what he sees.
I’m not exaggerating. It’s the kind of look that should come with a warning label.
Or a fire extinguisher. Or, like, a public service announcement about not making direct eye contact unless you’re prepared to have your entire insides torched.
My fork is basically useless in my hand.
All I can focus on is the heat rolling off Preston’s body, and the way his gaze drags over me like he’s already decided I’m what he wants for dessert.
I try not to look back at him, but it’s physically impossible.
His knee is still pressed against mine, rock solid and immovable.
Like he’s staked a claim. There’s zero chill in this man.
None. He’s not even pretending to play it cool.
So, I decide to give him a little taste of his own medicine.
I kick off my sandal and slide my foot slowly up the inside of his leg, starting at his ankle and ending somewhere right below his knee.
He jerks, just the tiniest bit, but I see it.
His eyes snap to mine, and for a second, I swear he forgets how to breathe.
All that cool, cocky confidence? Gone. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes so blue it’s almost dangerous, and I can literally see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat.
Holy shit. I did that.
I drag my toes back down his leg, a slow warning shot, and his lips part like he’s about to say something filthy right here in front of Nonnie. The air between us fills with electricity.
I stare straight into his eyes, daring him.
He winks at me. Full-on, one-sided, slow-motion wink.
Game on.
When Nonnie glances over at us, he looks at her and answers her question like nothing is going on. How in the world can he rock my world one second and act like a perfect lunch guest for my grandmother the next?
Nonnie ignores the fireworks happening between Preston and me and chatters on about some new game show she loves while I fight for control of this crazy situation.
Blessedly, the conversation turns to architecture, with Preston explaining his latest project in town. Nonnie peppers him with questions while I smile and try to act normal.
When we finally finish eating, Nonnie bustles to her feet, all innocent mischief, and beams at Preston. “Hazel makes the best apple pie. Would you like a slice?”
His eyes go molten. “I’d love to taste her pie.” And there’s no way in hell I’m imagining the way his gaze drops to my mouth. Or the way my nipples instantly harden under my dress.
I nearly choke on air. Holy hell. This man is going to wreck me. Nonnie’s just beaming, slicing pie like she doesn’t notice the way Preston’s eyes are practically eating me alive.
He takes the plate from her, but his gaze is still fixed on me, intense and electric. “Thanks, Nonnie,” he murmurs, but his voice is lower now, rougher. “This looks incredible.”
Pretty sure he’s not talking about the pie.
I try to steady my hands as I serve myself a slice, but the pie server scrapes against the dish because my fingers are trembling, and, oh my God, I am a disaster. He doesn’t miss it. He just grins, all wolfish amusement, like he loves that he’s making me come undone.
And then it happens.
Lunch ends, and Nonnie heads off to the kitchen and starts putting leftovers in Tupperware, leaving Preston and me at the table.
He leans in, voice pitched low for just me. “Hazel, would you have dinner with me on Wednesday?” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a command wrapped in velvet, and I swear my insides melt straight through the chair.
Holy hell. How can I refuse? I do a mental calendar check and realize I’m already booked on Wednesday. Darn. Since I was the one who arranged to have the book club meet at the library, I can’t exactly miss it.
“I can’t on Wednesday. But I’m free Friday,” I blurt, breathless and way too eager, but I genuinely don’t care. There’s no way I can hide what he does to me.
He grins, slow and lethal, blue eyes locking on my mouth. “Friday, it is then,” he repeats, like it’s a promise.