“Will you two stop being the world’s most unhelpful cheerleaders and actually help me figure out what to do?”
“Yes, dummy,” Marianna says, grinning as she pulls me into a quick hug. “Go shower. We’ll find you clothes.”
“And I’ll order the food,” Briana adds. “You’ll thank us later.”
I groan again, throwing my hands in the air. “I hate you both.”
“Liar,” Marianna says, rifling through my closet. “You’d die without us.”
She’s right. Without them, I’d be lying on the floor hyperventilating. Instead, I’m halfway to the bathroom, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, thinking—What the hell am I doing?
An hour later, I’m driving into the parking garage of one of the most expensive buildings on Ocean Avenue. It’s barely a blockfrom my place, but walking through the front doors of Rogue Gallagher’s building would be far too bold, so here I am, pulling into his world in my little car, heart in my throat.
Dinner sits in the passenger seat, still warm from the restaurant Bri ordered from. When I texted to say I was on my way, Rogue replied with a code for the gate and instructions to park on the fourth floor, the penthouse level. Of course he lives in the penthouse.
As I circle up, I spot him leaning against a concrete column near the reserved spaces. Gray sweats, black T-shirt, damp hair falling over his forehead. The kind of casual that looks like sin.
Thank every saint I decided on sweats too. After my shower, Bri and Anna had laid out outfit options, ranging from cozy loungewear to the glitter bustier I wore one Halloween. Convincing them this wasn’t a date-date took effort.
I park, cut the engine, and before I can even reach for the handle, he’s opening my door, and for a second, all I see is the flat plane of his stomach and the pull of fabric that makes it clear he’s… built. Then he bends, eyes catching mine as he slides something onto the visor.
“Remote for the gate,” he says, voice low and amused.
We’re face-to-face, the closest we’ve been since New York. His gaze lingers, then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. Sweet, disarming. My chest goes molten hot.
He straightens, offering his hand, and I take it. When I step out, he closes the door and pulls me into him, no hesitation, just strong arms wrapping around me, his chin resting on my head. He breathes me in.
“You smell so good, kitten,” he murmurs into my hair.
I smile against his chest. “So do you.”
He smells clean and warm, like soap and something darker underneath, something that’s just him.
For a moment neither of us move. Then he whispers, “Should we go up?”
I nod, pointing to the passenger side. “Food’s right there.”
He releases me long enough to grab the bags. I collect my purse and hoodie, and we head for the elevator.
“How long have you known we live this close?” I ask as we walk.
He glances over, that small smile tugging at his mouth. “Since I walked you to the building after I caught you dancing at the beach.”
“You’re very smiley lately,” I tease.
He shrugs. “Maybe I have a reason.”
My pulse skips. “Oddly convenient.”
The elevator arrives, and he presses the penthouse button. As we rise, I steal a glance at him, tall and broad, still damp from the shower, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of every place our arms brush and somehow, the air gets heavier with every floor.
When the doors open, it’s to a private hallway. Only one door. He pulls out his phone, scans it against a reader, and the lock clicks open.
“I’m glad there’s a door,” I say as I step inside. “Elevators that open straight into the apartment freak me out.”
He chuckles behind me. “How many penthouses have you been to, kitten?”
I stop mid-stride. The view steals my answer, the living room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights melting into the dark Atlantic beyond.
