Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
HAZEL
Friday night sneaks up on me faster than I expect.
I spend most of my week oscillating between excitement and full-scale panic, and by the time it’s six-thirty, I’m a tightly wound ball of nerves masquerading as a woman.
The first real date I’ve had in, oh, forever, and I’m not even going to pretend like I’m not losing my entire mind.
My closet is a graveyard of last-minute fashion regrets.
There’s a perfectly cute green wrap dress laid out on my bed, but all I see is potential pit stains and the memory of Nonnie calling it “saucy.” The alternative is a pair of black dress pants and an emerald green sweater, but I’m not sure what look I’m going for.
I go with the dress. It makes my boobs look fantastic, the color brings out my eyes, and with a little luck, the wrap style will disguise my emergency junk food bloat from earlier in the week.
I spend way too long with the curling iron, and my hair is…
Well, it’s doing its best. The minute I step outside, Texas humidity will make sure I look like a startled sheep, but for now, the curls are bouncy and I’m almost feeling myself.
Almost.
Until I look in the mirror and realize I forgot to do my makeup. Darn it.
I scramble, dabbing on the world’s fastest makeup job—just some tinted moisturizer, a swipe of mascara, and lip tint. There. That’s the best I’m going to look, ever.
At ten minutes to seven, my phone buzzes with a text from Preston.
Downstairs Flirt
On my way. Hope you’re hungry.
Should I be honest and tell him I’m too excited for this date to be hungry for food? No. That’s probably too desperate and needy. Instead, I go for an easy response.
Me
I can’t wait. I’m starving.
Ten minutes later, my heart is beating so loud it could be the opening act for a rock concert. I smooth my hair, wipe my hands on my dress, and try to breathe through the panic.
The knock comes. Not too soft, not too loud, just… confident. Like him. I swear, my stomach does a straight-up Olympic somersault.
I open the door.
Holy. Shit.
The man who’s been living rent-free in my mind since the first moment we met is standing in the hall. His eyes move slowly over me, and I swear they get a shade darker.
“Heard you were hungry,” he rumbles, voice low and dirty. My thighs clench while my heart beats double-time.
“Uh-huh,” is all I manage to mutter.
“You look gorgeous,” he says, his voice so rough and low I feel it in places I didn’t know could tingle.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” That’s a freaking understatement.
I drink in the sight of him. He makes my brain short-circuit.
I mean, wow. He’s not even trying to hide how much he wants me, blue eyes locked on every inch of me like he’s considering where to start first. That jaw, all hard lines and stubble, looks like it was made for biting.
His mouth is full and perfect and curled into the world’s filthiest smirk.
Dressed in jeans and a casual jacket, he looks like he’s ready to take on the world—or steal my heart. At this point, it’s a toss-up.
He grins, soft and a little dangerous. “You ready?”
I nod, way too quickly. “So ready.” I am. For dinner, for him, for anything.
We arrive at The Old Towne Steakhouse, which looks nothing like the chain places I usually frequent.
It’s a converted old bank, with high ceilings and velvet booths, all low lighting and dark wood and gold accents.
There’s a host in a suit, which is slightly intimidating, but when Preston gives his name, the host immediately ushers us to a corner booth, away from the Friday night crowd.
The booth is cozy, and when Preston slides in next to me, my heart rate spikes, and I decide that yes, actually, this is very much what I want.
A server appears with a wine list, but I beat her to the punch. “I’m not much of a wine person,” I admit, “but I do love whiskey sours.”
Preston’s grin widens. “Make that two,” he tells the server, and she nods and scurries off.
“So,” he says, leaning in. His arm stretches along the back of the booth, not quite touching me, but the implied possessiveness makes my skin tingle. “Tell me about yourself.”
I fiddle with the menu, stalling. “There’s not much to tell.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says. “You work at the library. You hang out with your grandmother. And—” He gestures at me. “You’re the most stunning, interesting woman I’ve ever met.”
I almost snort. “You need to get out more.”
He laughs again. “I’m serious. Most people have a story. I want to know yours.”
I take a deep breath and decide to go for broke.
“Okay. Here’s my entire life in sixty seconds: my parents died when I was a kid, so Nonnie raised me.
I grew up in this town, went away for college, then came back because—” I swallow.
“Because I didn’t want Nonnie to be alone.
And, also, because I genuinely like Worthington Hills. ”
He listens, and it’s not the fake, polite kind of listening. He’s really hearing me.
“I love books,” I continue, “but more than that, I like helping people fall in love with reading.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Wow. You are fucking adorable and perfect.”
I blink as my pulse stutters in my throat. “I—what?”
He leans in, so close I can make out the dark ring around the blue of his irises, the way his gaze pins me right there in my seat. Whatever he’s about to say fizzles on his tongue, interrupted by the server sliding in beside our table.
“Here you go.” She sets down our drinks with a soft clink. “You ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
Fudge. We haven’t even glanced at the menus. My brain is still playing catch-up. “We’ll need a little more time,” I manage, hoping I don’t sound as breathless as I feel.
“I’ll be back in a few,” she says, already off, weaving through tables like the clock is ticking. The air settles between us, electric and humming, menus forgotten as those blue eyes keep holding me in place.
For a second, I’m not sure what to do with the heat in his gaze. It’s not just desire. It’s something deeper. Like he’s memorizing every word.
“I guess we should figure out what we want to eat.” I grab my menu and do a quick thirty-second scan while Preston stares at me. I can barely process words, let alone entrees, so I pick the first thing I see right as the server appears.
“I’ll have the ribeye, medium, macaroni and cheese, and, um, the spinach.”
Preston’s mouth ticks up. “I’ll have the porterhouse. Medium rare with the twice-baked potatoes.” He doesn’t even look at the menu. His hand squeezes my knee under the table, sending my pulse through the roof.
The server’s eyes flick between us, and she smiles. “Perfect. I’ll put these right in.”
As soon as she’s gone, the tension snaps back, electric and hungry. I reach for my drink and take a healthy slug before turning to Preston.
“Okay, your turn.” I say it fast, desperate to shift the spotlight. “Why Worthington Hills? You don’t seem like a small-town guy.”
He rolls up his sleeves a little further, the motion casual but devastatingly sexy.
“Grew up in LA, but it stopped feeling like home a long time ago. Too crowded. Too fake. Jude, my business partner and best friend since college, is from here. He sold me on the ‘peace and quiet, slow down your life’ thing. I bought in. Plus, the architecture scene here is wild. You get to build the future instead of trying to live in someone else’s shadow. ”
I nod. “That makes sense. But don’t you miss it? The ocean? The chaos?”
He shrugs, but I see something flicker in his eyes. “Not really. I fell in love with Worthington Hills the first moment I visited.” He looks at me, suddenly serious. “It was the best decision I ever made.”
He’s quieter than I expected. Like there’s more underneath, and I want to find out what it is.
I expect the conversation to get awkward or to stall out, but it never does. He asks about my favorite books, and I go on a three-minute rant about why Persuasion is criminally underrated compared to Pride and Prejudice, and he listens, really listens, and doesn’t even pretend to be bored.
He tells me about his worst client ever—an oil baron who wanted a real movie studio to make videos with his much younger wife—and how his partner almost got them blacklisted. Evidently, their difficult client took offense when his wife blatantly flirted with Jude during a business dinner.
“That had to be a sticky situation,” I tell him.
“It was.” Preston laughs. “Jude had to start taking dates with him to all business dinners until some other guy caught the wife’s wandering eye.”
The food arrives, and my taste buds wake up for the first time all week. The steak is melt-in-your-mouth tender, and the mac and cheese is so creamy I have to restrain myself from eating the entire skillet in three bites.
He watches me eat, eyes twinkling. “You weren’t joking about being hungry.”
I dab my mouth with a napkin. “I never lie about food. That’s sacred.”
He leans closer. “What else don’t you joke about?”
Is it possible to combust from a single question? Because I think I just did. “A lot of things,” I say. “Like, for instance, you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever been on a date with, and it’s a little intimidating.”
His eyes widen, then he laughs, deep and genuine. “That’s good. Because you intimidate the hell out of me, Hazel.”
“Me?”
He nods. “You’re smart, funny, and you actually care about people. That’s rare.” His hand finds mine between our dishes, warm and a little callused. He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”
I try to hold his gaze, but it’s too much. Instead, I focus on his hand, big and steady around mine. It’s a good hand. Safe. Capable.
When dessert rolls around, the server brings us chocolate lava cake with two spoons, and we both pretend we’re not planning to eat the whole thing.
He feeds me the first bite, which should be cheesy but is actually the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it’s the way he watches my lips, or the way he licks the spoon after, but I am perilously close to inviting him back to my place right now.
After the check, we step outside. It’s gotten dark, and the early summer air is heavy and sweet. We walk through the packed parking lot hand in hand. When we reach his black SUV, he unlocks it, but instead of opening my door, he turns to face me.
There’s a beat where neither of us speaks, just this thick, loaded silence. Then he steps in, so close I feel the warmth of his body, inhale the scent of him—dark and expensive and male.
He brushes a curl from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “I can’t wait another second to kiss you,” he murmurs, and it’s the sexiest sentence in the English language.
He lowers his head, slow and deliberate, giving me time to change my mind.
I don’t. His mouth covers mine, warm and gentle and sure, and I melt into it.
He deepens the kiss, tongue teasing the seam of my lips, and I open for him because I have zero self-control and also because I want him to consume me.
It’s a mind-blowing kiss. A phenomenal, earth-shattering, ruin-you-for-all-other-men kind of kiss.
When he finally pulls away, I am breathless and a little dizzy.
“Even better than I’d imagined,” he mumbles against my lips. “And I fucking imagined it millions of times in the past week.”
I nod, incapable of speech.
He grins, then opens my door. “Let’s get you home, Gorgeous Girl.”
The whole drive back, my hand is in his, resting on the console. We don’t talk. We just drive, the silence saying all the things we’re not ready to admit out loud.
He walks me to my door and just steps closer, and suddenly, my back is against my front door as his arms cage me in. His eyes are even bluer in the dim hallway light. “I need to kiss you more than I need my next breath.”
I nod, but he’s already there with his mouth covering mine. This is an even hotter kiss than the one in the restaurant parking lot. He devours me. His lips are urgent, teeth catching my bottom lip, tongue sliding inside until I gasp and clutch his shirt in both hands.
He growls and deepens the kiss, one hand tangling in my hair, the other splayed against my lower back. I melt. There is no other word for it. I’m boneless, dissolving against his muscular body.
When he pulls away, I’m panting. My hands are in his hair, and my dress is bunched up around my thighs. He rests his forehead against mine, breathing as hard as I am.
“Jesus, Hazel,” he says, and it’s half a laugh, half a moan. “You undo me.”
I want to say something clever, but all I manage is, “Ditto.”
We stay that way for a minute, staring at each other in silence. I’m scared, but I don’t want to run. I want to know what happens when you let someone in, really in, past the jokes and the defenses.
He straightens, fixes my hair with a gentle hand. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll pick you up at noon,” he tells me as I open my front door. He hesitates, then cups my face with both hands and kisses me again, softer this time. “I want to take this slow,” he whispers. “But I want you to know—I’m all in.”
I’m all in, too. I just haven’t found the words for it yet.
He waits until I’m inside, then walks backward down the hall, never taking his eyes off me. When I close the door, I lean against it, heart galloping, and know that I’m completely and utterly lost.
And for once, it feels like maybe, just maybe, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.