God, I can’t do this. I’m going to climb the walls soon.
I'm a thirty-two-year-old woman who manages a class of wild little kids every day without flinching, and right now I'm trembling like a Chihuahua in a thunderstorm.
Then I hear footsteps in the hall. They slow outside the door.
My breathing stops.
There’s a knock. Two gentle raps, followed by a voice muffled through the wood. "Hey, trouble. You ready for this?"
My heart launches into my throat. I press my hand flat against my chest hoping I can physically hold it in place.
"That depends," I say back, trying not to shake. "Are you?"
A low laugh comes from the other side. "As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I swallow and roll my shoulders. "Then come in."
The handle turns and the door swings open.
And standing there—filling the doorframe with broad shoulders and an expression of complete, slack-jawed shock—is Chevy Torres.
Aiden's best friend. The firefighter Beth has been trying to set me up with for months. The man I've seen in exactly three photos on Beth's phone, each time thinkingyeah, okay, he's absurdly hot.The man whose schedule never aligned with mine, whose introduction the universe kept blocking at every possible turn.
Because the universe, apparently, had other plans.
He's even more attractive in person. Over six feet tall with dark wavy hair that's slightly messy in a way that looks effortless, warm brown skin, and a jaw that could win awards. He's wearing a dark blue button-down rolled to his forearms, and I can see the tattoo on the inside of one…his mother's initials. He told me about it.This impossibly beautiful man is the same person who listened to me cry about my son and made me laugh until my ribs hurt and described undressing me with such excruciating tenderness that I fell apart in my own bed.
And I’m positive Aiden or Beth has shown him photos of me, too, since they were relentless about setting us up.
We stare at each other and the silence is enormous.
"Camille?" His voice cracks on the second syllable, and hearing it—that voice,hisvoice, the one that wrecked me on the phone—come out of this face nearly short-circuits my brain.
"Chevy?" I whisper.
There’s another beat of stunned silence.
His eyes are wide, scanning my face as if he's trying to reconcile two realities at once.
I know the feeling. My brain is doing the same thing, overlaying every message, every late-night confession, every whispered word onto the man standing in front of me.
And it fits. God help me, it fits perfectly.
Then the panic hits.
Heisn'ta stranger. This is someone connected to my actual life…Beth's boyfriend's best friend.
If this goes wrong, it doesn't just disappear into the internet void. It explodes across my entire social circle. Beth will know. Aiden will know. Every barbecue, every group hangout, every casual dinner will be contaminated by the awkwardness ofI sexted your best friend and then it didn't work out.
The spiral kicks in fast and vicious:This was a mistake. He's going to see the tired, overwhelmed, hasn't-slept-properly-in-a-week version of you and realize you're not the woman he built in his head. That you’re not worth it.
He must see my thoughts on my face…how I shift from shock to something closer to flight.
“This is insane!” he exclaims, then laughs.
Notatme. At the cosmic, ridiculous absurdity of it all. It's a warm, full-body laugh that crinkles his eyes and transforms his whole face from magazine-cover handsome to something infinitely better.
"Soyou'rethe woman Aiden's been trying to set me up with for months," he says, shaking his head in disbelief, "and I've been falling in love with you online the entire time?"
