I’m staring at the full-length mirror on my bedroom wall, worried that a man I just met won’t like what he sees.How crazy is that?I smooth my hands down the front of my green sweater dress. It clings to my body more than anything I normally wear. Long sleeves, hem just above my knees, soft knit hugging my curves. I paired it with brown boots, the good leather ones with a slight heel that makes my legs look longer.
My blonde hair is down, loose around my shoulders, with just a bit of wave from the curling iron. I went with mascara, a soft smoky eye, and some lip gloss. Not full glam, but definitely … effort.
I look good. I know I look good.
But I don’t look anything like the women I’ve seen hanging off the backs of bikes in town—bare midriffs, tiny shorts, boobs that give me a backache just looking at them wearing little Harley tees that look like they were painted on. I look like I tried to dress up for a man who probably prefers tank tops and leather and women who say things like, “Ride me, Daddy” without blushing.
“I probably look like I’m trying too hard,” I mutter to my reflection.
Because I am.I want Wyatt to like me.Not just as a medical professional who patched him up, not as a woman who needed saving in a random firefight. I want him to look at me and think, damn, she’s fine. I want her.I want to keep her.
“God, I’m insane,” I mutter. Especially since all I can see is a woman in a sweater dress who owns more cardigans than lingerie. No tiny biker crop tops. No leather pants. No push-up bras that can double as a weapon. Nope, if you put them beside me, I probably look boring as hell.
Behind me on the bed, Baby sprawls on his back, little white paws in the air, Santa outfit still on from earlier—complete with tiny belt and faux fur trim. My ridiculous, perfect, traitor of a dog. I give my reflection one more four-second stare, then sigh and go sit beside my dog. The mattress dips, and Baby immediately rolls over and crawls into my lap, nudging his head under my hand like he’s on a mission for pets. I reward him by stroking my fingers through his hair.
“Did you have fun with the big bad biker today?” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. He doesn’t answer, obviously, but if dogs could purr, he’d be vibrating the whole bed. “Do you think I’m overdressed?” I ask him.
He yawns, huge and dramatic.
I giggle, wondering if this is his way of telling me I fail to compare to the biker babes in town, too. “I love you, Baby.”
“I don’t like that.”
The deep voice comes from behind me, and I freeze. My gaze snaps to the mirror, and there he is—Wyatt—leaning in my bedroom doorway like he’s always belonged there. Dark jeans, a black T-shirt hugging his chest, leather cut, beard just rough enough, hair a little messy like he ran his hand through it on the way up to my apartment. Our eyes lock in the reflection, and my breath catches.
“My dress?” I ask, frowning.
Baby—now known as traitor-dog—launches off my lap, hops to the floor, and trots straight over to Wyatt. I turn on the bed to face them and watch as Wyatt bends down and scoops my tiny poodle up like he’s something precious instead of a ten-pound ball of chaos. He pets him slowly—his big, calloused hand gentle on Baby’s back. I wouldn’t have believed it was possible if I wasn’t witnessing it firsthand.
“I thought my dress was pretty,” I say, suddenly unsure I even look good enough to pass. Maybe all Wyatt wants is a biker babe.Did he expect me to try to compete with them?I stand up and look down at myself. “Is it too much? Not enough? You didn’t really tell me how to dress for tonight, you know.”
His gaze drags over me, slow and hot, from my boots up my legs, lingering on my hips, my waist, my chest, my mouth. When his eyes meet mine again in the mirror, they’re heated. “You look fucking gorgeous,” he says simply. “You’re spectacular, and if you don’t know that, then you’ve seriously been hanging around the wrong people, honey.”
My face goes warm. “Then what are you talking about?”
He tips his chin at me, still holding my dog. “I don’t like you calling another man baby.”
I blink. “Baby is a dog, not a man.”
“He’s got a dick,” Wyatt replies completely serious. “That makes him male, and I don’t like it. His name is Buddy.”
Baby happily barks—as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
Wyatt rubs his head and murmurs, “Good boy.”
My eyes go wide. “Are you trying to rename my dog?”
“I’m not trying to rename him,” he says.
“Well, that’s good, because he’s my dog and I?—”
“I’ve already done it.” His mouth curves, infuriating and sexy. “His name is Buddy,” he announces.
Baby yips again and licks his hand enthusiastically.
I narrow my eyes at the little traitor. “Are you being serious right now?” I question Baby.
He just looks at me, tongue out, a picture of pure innocence.Freaking little liar.
