My stomach flips.
When I open the door, Knox is leaning against the frame, jeans low on his hips, slate-blue button-down clinging to his chest and arms like tailored temptation. When he shifts, the sleeves ride up just enough to showcase biceps that belong in an exhibit labeledHandle With Care.
And don’t get me started on how good this man smells.
“Hey, beautiful.”
My lips part, but for a second, nothing comes out.
“Hi,” I finally manage, somewhat breathless. “You smell like sin and summer.”
His smile deepens, dimples flashing, and my insides instantly burst into confetti.
Smooth jazz floats on the evening breeze, blending with the hum of conversation and the occasional clink of wineglasses.
Knox and I weave through clusters of lawn chairs and picnic blankets, the kittens tucked safely in their carrier—Dr. Ochoa-approved for short trips—as tiny VIPs.
Fairy lights twinkle between palm trees, casting the seaside park in a warm, golden haze that makes the whole scene feel borrowed from a dream.
We pass booths of local artists, their work displayed on easels and tabletops: sweeping landscapes, moody portraits, and messy, abstract swirls I pretend to understand.
The air smells like kettle corn and whatever vanilla candle is burning at Candle Dust’s booth behind us.
It’s warm but not stifling. An evening you want to stretch out as long as possible.
“This is breathtaking,” I say, eyes on the glowing lanterns swaying above us.
His gaze sweeps over me, and for a second, everyone around us disappears.
“You’rebreathtaking,” he says, sultry and low.
And I feel it everywhere.
“It’s like I’ve stepped into a Nicholas Sparks novel, minus the emotional devastation.”
“Give it time,” he says, lips twitching. “It’s still early.”
I nudge him, biting back a smile. “Let me have my moment.”
Knox shifts the kitten carrier to one arm and gestures toward an empty patch beneath a string of lanterns.
“Shady, central, less foot traffic. This spot has real-estate potential.”
I laugh, dropping the picnic blanket he brought. “Are you trying to impress me with your location strategy?”
“Is it working?”
I glance at the kittens, then back at him. “Suspiciously well.”
“Wait. You’re not about to audit me again, are you?”
I shake my head, already grinning, my whole body glowing like a lightning bug.
We spread out our blanket just as amber sunlight slips behind bowing palms, casting long shadows across grass that sways lazily like it’s dancing with the breeze.
Knox opens the small picnic basket he insisted on packing “just in case,” which apparently means he’s auditioning for Cheese Sommelier of the Year.
“You travel with a container of emergency brie now?” I ask, raising a brow.
