But he had worn that hoodie to their panel. He’d been seen in it, photographed. Her fans were neither blind nor stupid—they would recognize it the moment she walked into the bookstore. If the Internet had been on fire after their panel, it would go full nuclear if she showed up wearing his clothes. She clenched her jaw.
“Fine. T-shirt.”
Without a word, Darren reached for the hem of his hoodie and pulled it off, taking the T-shirt with it.
Emma didn’t stare.
She . . . peeked. Maybe.
His torso was all clean lines and lean muscle, his skin golden in the dim light. He pulled the T-shirt out from the hoodie and held it out to her with a casual “Here.”
Their fingers brushed as she grabbed it. Emma tried very hard to keep her face neutral.
She turned her back to change, fast and functional, praying that no one would show up. Darren’s T-shirt slid over her skin, still carrying a trace of his warmth.
It smelled like him: sandalwood, clean laundry, and a deeper note she couldn’t place, masculine and intoxicating. If she had written this scene, she’d have edited it for feeling too on the nose. She bit the inside of her cheek, pulled her hair free, and turned back around.
Something flickered across Darren’s face.
She must have looked a mess—flustered, dust-streaked, hair wild. Yet his eyes darkened. A gleam of approval, yes, but layered with something hungrier. Something closer to claim.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—lips parting, pulse kicking, heat coiling low inside her.
The moment stretched, thin and electric, Emma’s breath coming shallow.
Then it was gone, replaced by his easy composure as if it had never been there at all.
“Stairs?” he asked, voice neutral. Far too neutral.
Emma swallowed, legs feeling weak. “Stairs.”
They darted for the stairwell as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been held flush against his body minutes before. As if she weren’t wrapped in his scent.
As if the weight of his gaze didn’t linger on her skin, quiet as an unspoken promise.
Chapter 19
Friday traffic, fed-up driver, fans waiting.
The car lurched forward, then slammed to a halt. Emma’s hand shot out, bracing against the seat in front of her.
“Could you maybe just go alittlebit faster?” she asked, polite but strained, her voice pitched an octave too high.
The driver gave her a murderous look in the rearview mirror, muttering something in Spanish. She caughtloca, and something she was pretty sure translated to “ass.”
Darren leaned back against the seat, his mouth twitching. He seemed remarkably at ease, given that the cramped backseat was hardly designed for someone his height. “Emma,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s the fifth time you’ve asked. And we’re standing at a red light.”
“Yeah, well, I meant . . . after,” she said, gesturing vaguely.
He chuckled. “You’ve done all you can. Hell, you risked both of our lives to get there on time. Now it’s up to the traffic gods. Not even you can take on those.”
“This is the smallest Uber I’ve ever been in,” she grumbled. “Hecouldprobably sneak past the line if he really tried, like a scooter.”
Darren gave her a mildly reproachful look. “It’s out of your hands, Emma. Try to relax.”
