This is business-adjacent dining. Nothing more.
I peel off my bakery clothes, wash my face, and dig through my closet like a woman possessed. I’m aiming for comfortable-yet-cute, but my reflection looks like nervous-with-a-side-of-please-don’t-let-him-see-you-drool.
I settle on dark jeans, a fitted cream sweater, and my favorite boots.
And because I have zero self-control, I add lip gloss. Just in case.
I tug the bottom of my sweater up with my teeth as I zip up my jeans—only to freeze when I hear a voice behind me.
“Need help?”
I yelp. Spin around.
And there he is.
Eb Rogers, CEO, Badger Shifter, certified problem.
Leaning against my doorway, all six-foot-something of him, in his tailored black coat, wearing a look that should be illegal.
For a second, I can’t even form words.
His eyes drag down my body, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every inch.
“Do you mind?” I snap.
But it comes out breathier than I’d like.
“Not even a little,” he grumbles.
He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look remotely sorry.
He just studies me—hungry, restrained, and maybe just a little dangerous.
And oh God, I like it.
He clears his throat and turns, fast enough that I almost think I imagined the heat in his gaze.
“Got a coat?” he asks gruffly.
“Yep,” I manage, snatching my favorite camel-colored peacoat from the rack.
“Good.”
He holds the door open for me, and for a man who’s all growls and sharp edges, he’s oddly gentle when his hand grazes the small of my back to guide me outside.
The touch is brief. Barely there.
But it sends a warm shiver up my spine anyway, because of course it does.
And then—oh, holy luxury vehicle, Batman.
There it is.
A Mercedes-Benz G-Class G 63, the mother of all luxury trucks, is just sitting under a streetlamp like something out of a dream.
The thing practically purrs even before he starts it.
Matte army green paint, gleaming chrome accents, tinted windows, the works.
