I adjust my glasses for the fifteenth time and smooth down my vintage Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, suddenly hyperaware that I’m wearing ripped jeans and Converse instead of something that screams ‘I’m totally fine and definitely not spiraling.’
The door chimes, and I don’t even have to look up to know it’s him.
The energy in the room shifts. Conversations pause. Heads turn.
Because Nitro doesn’t just walk into a space, he dominates it.
He’s wearing dark jeans that hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal, a black T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, and boots that look as if they could kick down a door without a second thought. His beard is neatly trimmed, his dusty blond hair, with those flecks of gray, just messy enough to make my fingers itch with the urge to touch it.
And when his eyes find mine across the crowded coffee shop, everything else disappears.
My stomach does that stupid flip-flop thing that romance novels always talk about, but I always thought was bullshit.
Turns out, it’s notbullshit.
It’sterrifying.
He weaves through the tables with an ease that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size, and then he’s standing in front of me, looking down at me with something warm and unreadable in his expression.
“Small Town,” he chimes, and the nickname sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
“City Boy,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.
He gestures to the chair across from me. “Mind if I sit?”
“I mean, that’s kind of why we’re here, right?” I joke, trying to lighten the tension crackling between us like static electricity before a storm.
His lips quirk into a half smile as he folds himself into the chair, which suddenly looks like doll furniture beneath his bulk. “True. But I’m still gonna be polite about it.”
Of course you are.
Because you’re decent and kind and way too good to be real.
A barista appears almost instantly, a petite blonde named Tiffany, whom I’ve seen working here for months but who has never once approached my table with that kind of speed.
“Can I get you anything?” she purrs, leaning in just enough that her cleavage is at Nitro’s eye level.
He doesn’t even glance down or take the bait. “Black coffee,” he says, his attention fixed solely on me. “Thanks.”
Tiffany’s smile falters, but she recovers quickly, scribbling on her notepad with unnecessary flair. “Coming right up.”
The moment she’s gone, Nitro leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and studies me with an intensity that makes heat crawl up my neck.
“So,” he says. “The plan.”
“The plan,” I echo, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug as if it’s a life preserver.
“You sure you want to do this?” The question catches me off guard. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation, just genuine concern.
“Areyousure?” I counter. “I mean, showing up to a fancy gala with her ex’s curvy girlfriend—”
“Don’t!” The word is sharp, cutting through my self-deprecating spiral like a knife. His jaw clenches, and something fierce flashes in his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about yourself like that.” He leans forward, forearms braced on the table, and suddenly the space between us feels charged. “Any man who made you feel anything less than fucking stunning is a goddamn fool.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
