I steady myself, exhale, and pull the door open. Warm air rushes out—tequila, citrus, fried food, the faintest trace of something floral. For a man who lives by control, it’s ridiculous how fast my pulse picks up.
Inside, string lights sway overhead, and somehow, even with thirty-odd people here, my gaze lands on the cutest fucking black curls in the world. Curls as vibrant as her broad smile. Everything about her bouncy hair and vivacious curves sayslive a little.
She’s at the bar with an empty pint glass in her hand, beside Lara, looking right at me…and for a second, I can’t move. Six months gone, and she still looks like the kind of temptation you don’t survive twice.
Her eyes find mine across the room, and the noise drops out.
For one suspended beat, she’s the only thing I see.
My lungs forget what they’re for.
She’s not in uniform—thank God, I might blow righthere. She’s wearing jeans that hug that peachy ass of hers and a red, flowy, sleeveless top, casual, effortless. Her legs are a mile long because she’s wearing platform heels, and I love that she’s not afraid of her height. She must be six-one in those, and she is owning it tonight. There’s a poise to her posture—confident, a little loose at the edges.
Pride burns somewhere deep in my chest.
She did it.
Gabriel spots me, gives a small nod that saysfinally. I nod back, shake off the tension, and step toward Freya at the bar. Every step into the charged space, the air grows thicker.
“Hey,” she says brightly but quietly at the same time.
“Hey yourself.” I move closer. Too close, maybe, but it’s that damn gravity. Or maybe it’s because I want to hug her. Hugging would be normal.
I open my arms, and she steps straight into me.
Her breasts are warm, full, and soft on my chest. Her hand slips inside my jacket, palm flat against my back, fingers spread. Heat explodes everywhere. There’s suddenly pressure in my goddamn jeans. It’s a full-body response I have to lock down hard just to stay upright.
Her red, silky tank is sensual on my palm; it’s so thin, I can feel the bumps of her bra strap. Her neck smells like vanilla.
When she pulls back, her curls brush my jaw, and I have to let her go first.
Because if I don’t, I won’t.
She lifts her empty glass. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
If she only knew that after I sludged through that San Jose traffic, I got myself a speeding ticket. Being late to this celebration wasn’t my plan.
I call the bartender, Hudson, over casually, as if I’m atany old two-for-ones on Friday and not having waited six months for Freya to get back to this very spot.
I’ve been looking forward to this night like a kid gasping for Christmas because being around Freya is an occasion all on its own. I thought six months would put some of this fire out for me. But every time I checked in on her progress, even though they were just texts here and there, seeing if she was alright or needed a pep talk, just those few lines were enough to keep me reeled in on how amazing she is.
I need a drink.
Especially because that low-cut top of hers shows more cleavage than I ever had to resist on those coat-covered stakeouts.
Hudson throws his hand over the bar to fist-bump me. “What’s your poison?”
“A beer for me.” I turn to Freya. “Can I get you another…?”
The glass in her hand isn’t her first—condensation rings mark the bar like little time stamps.
“Let’s do a shot?” she asks brightly.
Wasn’t my plan, but I’ve never been good at telling Freya no.
Hudson doesn’t even ask me if I want one because this is effectively a Mendez party, and that means tequila is on tap. He pours us two. Freya and I clink glasses and down them in one go. Then, her gorgeous, full lips pucker around that lime and suck. I never wanted to be a citrus fruit so badly.
