Even if it kills me.
My phone buzzes on the counter, shattering the moment. I glance down, see the name, and groan.
Ugh. Bobby.
I swipe to answer. “What?”
“Hey, bro!” His voice is way too chipper for this hour. “How’s it going? So, you think you can pick me up before Uncle Uzzi’s Holiday Gala on Friday?—”
“No,” I say flatly, and hang up.
He immediately calls back.
I decline.
Calls again.
Decline.
Third time.
“Persistent little shit,” I mutter, answering just to get it over with. “What now?”
Bobby chuckles.
“Damn, someone’s grumpy. Didn’t get enough sleep? Or was it that your little Date to Mate match kept you up all night thinking dirty thoughts?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting. You’re practically glowing through the phone, man. You like her.”
“She’s—” I stop, because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
She’s everything.
She’s chaos. She’s warmth. She’s honey and fire and cinnamon sugar rolled into one woman who’s entirely too good for me.
“She’s different,” I finally say.
Bobby hums knowingly.
“Yeah, different. That’s what you say right before you buy matching Christmas pajamas and start saying ‘we’ instead of ‘I.’”
“Goodbye, Bobby.”
He’s laughing as I hang up again.
But even as I shut off my phone and head to bed, his words echo in my head.
Different.
Yeah. She is.
Different. Special. Perfect.
And mine.
Which is exactly why I can’t stop thinking about her.
