I’ve lived with fear before. I know its shape. I know the way it creeps into your bones and never really leaves.
This…isn’t that.
This is awareness. Heightened, but electric.
I finish dressing and move back into the bedroom, standing in front of the closet again. My fingers hover for a second, then close around the hanger. With a sudden burst of resolve, I pull the red jacket free and slip it on.
The fabric settles over my shoulders, heavier than I remember. Brighter too. I button it up as I grab my bag. It’s unusually cool for Los Angeles—one of those rare mornings where the air feels crisp instead of forgiving.
I don’t miss the significance of that.
I step out of my apartment and lock the door behind me, my pulse skittering as I head down the stairs. Outside, the street is quiet, a huge contrast to my busy mind.
I stop just beyond the building entrance. For a moment, I look around, scanning the parked cars, the opposite sidewalk and the street, wondering if he’s somewhere around—watching me. Then I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that this is what paranoia feels like when you let your imagination run wild.
Still…my skin prickles.
What if he’s really here?
The thought sends a shiver straight through me—sharp, thrilling…
I don’t see anyone watching, but I walk toward my car with a small, unguarded smile on my face anyway.
By the time I settle at my desk at Flint & Stone Records, I’ve managed to convince myself not to think so much about this mysterious stranger who’s suddenly added some thrill to my otherwise boring life.
My inbox is a mess, brimming with reschedule requests, calendar conflicts, last-minute additions that my boss, Mick Flint, somehow expects to materialize out of thin air. I fall into the familiar rhythm of it, fingers flying over the keyboard, headset pressed to my ear as I juggle calls and confirmations. This part of my job grounds me. Order from chaos. Predictable problems with clear solutions.
It almost works.
I’m mid-email when a shadow falls across my desk.
“Delivery for Georgia.”
I glance up, and my mouth falls open at the large bouquet of sun flowers in front of my face. It’s stunning…thoughtfully arranged. My favorite flowers.
A shocked laugh escapes my lips as I try to wrap my head around the reality in front of me. I’d mentioned fleetingly how I love sun flowers because they are resilient, how they bloom even when conditions aren’t ideal, and this man sends me a whole bouquet of sun flowers.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath, still shaking my head in disbelief.
The delivery man shifts slightly, waiting. He’s tall. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his jacket, trim at the waist in a way that feels enticing. He’s wearing a hat pulled low and dark sunglasses that cover most of his face.
For a fleeting, inappropriate second, my attention drifts to the way he fills the space in front of me…the silent strength about him…
He smiles—not wide, not flashy. Just enough to be polite.
“Sign here,” he says.
His voice is low and deep. And very, very sexy.
Pull yourself together, Georgia.
I reach for the tablet, and as I do, our fingers brush. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm so startling that I suck ina breath. He stills for half a beat, his hand retreating just as quickly as it came close, like he felt it too.
Something twists low in my stomach.
What the heck was that?
I frown, returning my attention to the flowers—an excuse to catch my breath. Seems like my head is all muddled up since the appearance of a certain mystery man in my life and now my body is responding to some random delivery man at my workplace. The oddity of the past few days is clearly affecting my mind.
