“Yes?”
“You’ll need to get out of my truck first.”
“What?” Squeezing her eyes shut, she gives a soft growl of frustration. “I seriously hate my brain right now.”
“I don’t.” With her eyes pinched shut, she looks like a flustered angel. Brushing a shock of dark hair off her face, I murmur the words I’m pretty sure she needs to hear. “You don’t always have to be perfect, you know.”
Her eyes flutter open, wide and unsure. Holding her gaze, I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone. Her lips part a little, but she doesn’t respond. The fierce urge to kiss her floods every part of me, and it’s all I can do not to lunge for her mouth.
Blinking, she shakes herself out of a daze. She lurches away, grabbing the door handle. “I have to go.”
Tumbling out, she slams the door shut and sprints for her car like I’m chasing her.
Like it’s blowing her mind, the thought of not being perfect.
It feels odd stepping into Hazel’s hotel suite. She didn’t check in until we arrived together, but somehow her scent swirls through the space like a magical spell. Roses and sandalwood ripple around me as I survey the room.
A full wall of windows frames the Willamette, its muddy banks lush with leafy oaks. There’s a gracefully arched amphitheater near the shore with a cluster of teenagers clowning around at the edge. A few yards downriver from that, a colorful carousel spins a riot of hand-painted creatures.
“Nice place,” I say, turning back toward the room.
“Thanks.” Hazel touches the back of a big velvet sofa the color of warm maple syrup. “I stay here whenever I’m in town.”
It’s a far cry from the basement apartment where I normally stay. “You’re here a lot, then.”
“Yes.” She nibbles the edge of her lip. “I try to see my father as often as I can. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors.”
I imagine so. Screwing your family will do that.
“Don’t say it,” she says, reading my thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Think so, huh?” Hell, she’s probably right.
“You’re thinking my father deserves what he got.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You thought it.”
“You’re a mind reader now?” I sincerely hope not. The number of impure thoughts I’ve had about that huge king bed in the corner hit six million the moment her teeth squashed that plush bottom lip.
“The shower is through there.” As Hazel points, her stomach lets loose a wicked growl. “Sorry about that. I should probably eat something more substantial than saltines.”
“I’ll let that ‘sorry’ slide because, yeah—I’m starving, too.” I should have had lunch before our appointment. “What can I get you?”
“You don’t have to g?—”
“You’re incubating our spawn,” I interrupt. “The least I can do is feed you.”
She hesitates. “I promise I’m eating nutrient-dense food. Taking prenatal vitamins, getting plenty of calcium and whole grains and?—”
“Hazel.” Why does she do this?
“I want jojos.” She bites her lip again. “Is that what they’re called? That’s what Lucy always called them when we’d pool our spare change and walk to the service station to split a double order with a huge side of ranch.”
“You mean seasoned, fried potato wedges?”
Her stomach growls again. “Yes. I’m not sure room service would have them.”
