“Nice place,” he says, looking around. After my cleaning binge today, my apartment looks more staged than lived in, but it’s the way I’d prefer it at the moment. “It smells like you.”
No matter what he says, my cheeks become hot in response. I think it’s the profound, smokey way his words sound when he talks.
I place my hands on my cheeks. “Cut it out,” I say.
“Cut what out, darlin’?” he laughs.
“Quit making me blush.”
“I didn’t force you to get all dolled up and make my heart start skippin’ beats, did I now?”
Maybe some of that was purposeful. “I suppose,” I say, grabbing my ruby red clutch from the edge of my sofa. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere, if you keep batting those eyelashes at me,” he says. He hasn’t acted like this yet either, and I’m feeling unsteady, in a good way.
Chance moves in toward me until my back is against the wall. “Is this okay? Am I movin’ too fast here?”
I shake my head slowly. “God no. You are officially my new form of whiskey, Chance.”
“Good God, August. Careful what you say to a weak man.”
“Call me, Auggie,” I tell him. Only people in formal settings call me August, and I don’t want there to be any more formalities between Chance and me.
“Auggie,” he breathes, bringing his lips to my neck. The feeling is like fire ripping through my body. I cup my hand around the back of his neck, and his arm sweeps around my back, pulling my waist into him. He smells sweet and smokey, woodsy with a hint of fruit. My fingernails pinch at his skin as he leaves me feeling out of control.
Then, his lips find mine, and he mutters, “You feel so good,” against my mouth. The words tickle my tongue and throat. I want to tell him I just coated my lips in lipstick, but I don’t think he cares.
My head falls against the wall, letting him take my lips under his control. His hands glide down the length of my arms, slowly, deliberately, landing on my hips. His grip tightens, and there’s a good chance I’d ask him to stay in all night if he doesn’t stop.
Maybe our minds are in the same place because he pulls away and rests his forehead against mine. “It’s been so damn long, Auggie. I haven’t kissed a woman in forever, and now nothing can ever compare to this.”
I creep my hands up his chest until they rest on his shoulders. “This is all new to me, too, Chance.”
“Where have you been?”
“Waiting for you,” I whisper.
He runs the tips of his thumb around his lips, wiping away the lipstick he’s stolen from my lips. He presses his other thumb to my lips, cleaning up the mess he left behind. His hand smells like vanilla soap.
“We could stay in,” I mutter.
He shakes his head at me. “No, ma’am. I’m taking you out for dinner first.”
Chance takes my hand within his and escorts me out the door and down the stairs. He helps me into his truck, and when the key goes into the ignition, Morgan Wallen’s dreamy voice blares through the speakers, singing out “Whiskey Glasses.”
“Did you plan this?” I ask.
Chance gives me a wink and turns up the music.
We pull up to Blue-Bonnet Grill, which is an upscale restaurant. I think I’m wearing suitable attire. “Wow, when you say dinner, you mean fancy, huh?”
“I know how to treat a woman,” he says, flashing a wink before hopping out of the truck. “Which means stay put so I can open your door.”
The laughter flows freely. I’m not sure Chance is always like this, but the effort is something I’ve never experienced, ever. My door swings open, and Chance offers me his hand. “You’re quite the gentleman,” I tell him.
“I can be,” he says.
The restaurant is dimly lit, decorated with candles and gothic-like chandeliers. Soft music sets the mood, and the quiet hum of chatter offers a sense of peace. “I have reservations for two. Chance Miller,” he says to the hostess.
