Hannah was on her second Coen brothers movie marathon in as many weeks when she heard Cesar’s keys jiggle in the front door.
What in the world? Did I fall into a time vortex? He shouldn’t be home already.
Setting aside her pint of Chubby Hubby, she lifted her cell phone from the end table and checked the time.
No. Not a time vortex. Itwastoo early for Cesar to be home.
Something bad must’ve happened, she thought with alarm, her breaths quickening. Given the hatred leveled against drag queens from certain extremist sectors of the population, she lived in constant fear that the Lounge would be the site of something awful and violent.
Her fear turned to jaw-dropping surprise, however, when the door burst open and it wasn’t Cesar standing on the threshold.
It was Sam.
All six-plus feet of worn jeans, leather jacket, and blue eyes that cut through the distance between them like a laser light.
“Sam?” His name squeaked from her as she pushed her sloppy bun, which had fallen behind her ear, back on top of her head. Unsurprisingly, it just fell down behind her ear as soon as she let go of it. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Her eyes widened as he kicked the door closed behind him and started stomping in her direction. His big, biker boots thudded in rhythm to her heart. The look on his face was…
Mad? Annoyed?
She couldn’t quite place it. Then she snapped imaginary fingers as it came to her.
Determined.
Sam wasverydetermined.
But determined to do what?she wondered with no small amount of trepidation.
Before she could answer her first question, a second one popped out of her mouth. ”How did you get in? Who gave you a key?”
“Cesar.” His voice was so deep and delicious. Oh, how she’d missed the sound of it.
He stopped when his shins bumped the edge of the sofa. His breaths were deep and regular, making the front of his biker jacket expand along with his chest. And his eyes had those pinpoint pupils he got when he really focused on something.
Right then, he was focused on her.
She wished her T-shirt—which read: Chickens, the pet that poops breakfast—didn’t have a spaghetti stain on it and that she hadn’t pulled her comfiest, most raggedy pair of pajama bottoms out of the drawer earlier.
“Why?” she blinked up at him uncomprehendingly, her mind unable to grasp that he was trulythere. Righttherein front of her.
Was she dreaming? Or was she dead and this was her version of heaven? Had she fallen asleep and suffocated in her own ice cream?
“Because I need to talk to you, woman.”
Good gracious, he looked good. His cheeks were darkened by a tan, proof he’d recently been somewhere sunny. And his beard had grown back. Once again, his square jaw was covered by a thick pelt of crinkly black hair that had feltamazingwhen it’d been brushing the tops of her thighs.
She was pulled from her salacious thoughts when he added, “Because there are some things we need to clear up.”
The way he towered above her, hands on hips and looking so big and broad, had her fingers tingling along with…otherparts of her.
She tried to ignore all of that. “What things?” Unfortunately, her voice was so quiet, he didn’t hear her above the sound of Marge’s character inFargosaying,“Oh, you betcha.”
Grabbing the remote, she muted the television, cleared her throat, and tried again. “What things, Sam?”
His expression was unreadable. So she wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or impatience she heard in his voice. “Things like whether or not you’re in love with me.”
Damn you, Cesar!
