I open the door and he’s wearing a backwards hat, a simple white shirt and black shorts. The hat has me about ready to drool. He looks ridiculously good.
He pauses inside the doorway, taking in my apartment, and I watch him do it—eyes moving slowly, deliberately. The space is open but cozy, sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors, plants stretching toward the windows. Everything has a place. It feels like me, and I realize I care a little too much about whether he can tell.
“This tracks,” he says finally.
“High praise,” I tease, closing the door behind him.
His attention shifts to me then—really lands—and I feel it like a warm brush along my skin. I’m wearing jean shorts and a red ruffled top, the sleeves soft against my shoulders. I suddenly become very aware of my legs. How his gaze sticks around. How I don’t want him to look away.
“What?” I ask, smiling.
He clears his throat, not even pretending. “You look… really good.”
I shake my head, amused. “You’re staring.”
“I am,” he agrees easily, grin breaking through. “Wanted to make sure you noticed.”
He steps closer, fingers brushing my wrist, and for the first time all day, the weight in my chest eases. His lips find mine and the electricity from his touch rushes through my entire body. Every piece of me is touched by him.
Pulling away just far enough, he admits, “I like kissing you.” He’s close enough that his lips brush mine. “But your stomach growling tells me we have other places to be.”
Colson puts a final kiss on my lips and opens the door. I can’t remember the last time someone picked me up like this and I simply give up.
Because one thing is for sure: none of them were like Colson Burke.
I’mstilltryingtopush away the feeling of dread and this perfectly warm July day is definitely helping. I keep thinking about the way my stomach plummeted when I stepped inside. There’s nothing I can do about ittoday, no matter how many times my brain circles back to budgets and timelines and worst-case scenarios. Colson is right. Insurance offices are closed. Contractors won’t call back. And the town has fully tipped into Fourth of July mode whether I’m ready or not.
Tourists crowd the sidewalks, sunburned and laughing, coolers stacked high, kids darting between legs with boxes of sparklers they are saving for later. Our perfect lake town is brimming with energy.
So I try to let myself be in it. Even if it’s only for today.
My mind keeps drifting back to last night, anyway—the way his kiss felt unhurried, like time had finally loosened its grip. The steam from the shower curling around us, warm and quiet, his hands steady on my backlike he wasn’t going anywhere. The softness of it all surprises me more than the heat did.
“Hungry?” Colson asks, bumping his shoulder into mine like it’s nothing.
On cue, my stomach squeezes, a reminder of our makeshift, no power dinner last night.
“Starving.”
He tips his head forward. “Cherry Pit?”
I stop walking. “Cherry Pit?” I thought he had sort of entertained me by going there and wouldn’t be itching to go back.
He grins, easy and unapologetic. “We like it here.”
We.There he goes again, being all swoony and sweet. Who knew the broken NBA player had all this behind that scowl. My chest tightens in that good, unfamiliar way.
Downtown is packed, every table visible through the windows is already full, and when he reaches for my hand, he does it without hesitation. No pause. No checking who’s watching. For a split second, I wonder if he’ll think better of it—if the weight of beingColsonwill catch up to him.
It doesn’t.
He threads his fingers through mine like it’s instinct, like this is already something he’s decided.
“We’ll probably have to wait,” I say, looking around at the crowded streets.
Colson shrugs and asks, “Do we have anywhere else to be?”
I shake my head and he squeezes my hand. Fuck, he’s charming.
