That should not matter this much. It is one dance. One evening. One very inadvisable outing with a man I met a few hours ago.
A man whose voice has been replaying in my head ever since he left.
Seven, Lexie.
My stomach swoops.
I smooth both hands down the front of my dress just as headlights sweep across the curtained windows.
He’s here.
My heart trips over itself.
I grab my coat, slip it on, and open the door.
Then I forget how to breathe.
Weston stands on the porch in dark jeans, boots, and a clean flannel under a heavy jacket that strains across his shoulders in a way that should not be legal. His hair is still a little wild from the wind. His beard catches the porch light. And his eyes, those impossible blue eyes, land on me and stay there.
He just looks at me.
Slowly, heat blooms low in my belly.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently my vocabulary is now limited to one syllable.
His gaze drifts over me, then back to my face.
“You look pretty.”
Pretty.
Not hot. Not sexy. Not something slick and practiced.
Pretty.
The word lands somewhere tender inside me and squeezes.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “You clean up nice too.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
He steps back from the door. “Ready?”
I lock the cabin and turn to him, trying not to notice how naturally he takes my elbow as I step off the porch, or how warm his hand feels even through my coat.
His truck is huge. Of course it is.
Weston opens the passenger door for me, waiting until I climb in before shutting it behind me. A second later he slides in beside me, bringing cold air, cedar, and that clean male scent with him.
The truck smells like leather, pine, and Weston.
It is a problem.
The drive into town is quiet at first, but not awkward. Settled. Easy. His hand rests loose on the wheel, broad and capable, and I have to physically drag my eyes away before I start acting like I’ve never seen a man drive before.
Which, to be clear, I have.
I’ve just never seenthisman do anything.
