Then I step back and assess from different angles.
Can’t see it from the hallway. Can’t see it from the bathroom entrance. Good.
“I got this,” I whisper.
I turn around and walk directly into a solid wall of muscle and warmth.
Groaning, I stumble back, looking up. And up. And up.
Slater stares down at me, deep eyes dancing with amusement, black hair wind-messy. He’s wearing a gray Henley that fits him perfectly, showing off the breadth of his shouldersand chest, paired with a cargo jacket and those scuffed boots. He smells like smoked cedar, sea salt, and coffee, and it’s addictive. My knees wobble slightly with each inhale I take. Why does he have to smell so good? I want to move in closer, take a deeper breath, because something about his scent will undo me.
“You linger around bathrooms a lot,” he says, voice that same deep rumble I’m drowning in. There’s a teasing edge to it now, playful in a way that completely transforms his usually grumpy expression.
That same voice I’ve heard in the bath, in bed, on the ferry, whispering filthy, slow-burn promises until I couldn’t take it anymore.
My thighs press together instinctively.
I force a laugh, trying to channel anything masculine. I give him a fake punch to the arm, the kind of thing I’ve seen guys do in bad sitcoms. My fist taps muscle so solid it may as well be granite. He doesn’t even blink. Just grins wider.
“You’re such a joker,” I manage, tone tight. Casual. Bro-ish. Definitely not on the verge of melting.
“Not joking. Legitimate observation.” His grin shifts into something softer.
“You okay? You look a little pale.”
Nope. Not okay. My body is betraying me. Because now, unbidden, a line from one of his audiobooks loops through my head as I stare at that perfect, strong face.
You’re going to come for me, sweetheart. Just like that. Good girl.
My pulse stumbles. I’m suddenly way too aware of my skin, my scent, the flush creeping up my neck.
“Fine. Great,” I blurt, a little too loud. “Just, uh, nervous. First work dinner and all that.” I try to breathe, but then his voice—that voice—again from the story:I want you spread out and ruined, just for me.
God. I listened to that scenethree timeslast week.
He nods like he believes me. “So you’re all sitting in the back, then? Saw you as I came in,” I say, grasping for neutral ground.
“Yeah. Come on.” He gestures for me to follow.
I do. On shaky legs, doing my best to walk like I’m not about to combust.
Because every time he opens that perfect, narrator mouth of his, my body forgets everything except the aching reminder that Joe Hamilton—Slater—is here, live and unfiltered, and he sounds exactly like my favorite fantasy.
Once at the table, it’s even more intimidating up close.
Mason sits on the left side, looking effortlessly gorgeous in a cream shirt. His sandy-blond hair is neatly combed back, short beard trimmed. Those golden-brown eyes track my approach.
Next to him sits Dylan, whose long hair is down tonight, past his shoulders. The shaved lines at his temples are sharp and clean, adding an aggressive edge to his otherwise friendly face. He’s wearing a flannel shirt in dark-green-and-black plaid, rolled at the sleeves to show off tattooed forearms, and he’s grinning widely as I approach, green eyes bright with welcome.
Across from them is Jasper, blond hair falling to his shoulders in waves, his ice-blue eyes intense. He’s in all black, shirt and jeans, with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
And Slater slides into the seat next to Jasper, completing the group, his larger frame making even Jasper look slightly smaller by comparison.
They scoot over on the bench, making room for me next to Slater.
I sit, trying to take up space like a guy would. Legs spread wide. Elbows on the table. Shoulders back.
The bench is warm from their body heat. I’m surrounded by their scents, the delicious aromas—it’s overwhelming.
