I let out a breath so long and shaky it felt like my lungs were deflating. My knees actually gave a little, and I had to lean my hip against the iron railing. "Oh. Yeah. No, that’s... that’s perfectly fine, Sarah. Thank you. Just tell him to be ready by ten tomorrow, okay?"
I ended the call and slumped back against the railing, the cool mist of the Seattle setup finally registering on my skin again.
Michael was watching me, a knowing, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't moved; he just leaned back on the sofa, looking entirely too relaxed for a man who had just watched me nearly have a coronary.
"See?" he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. "The world didn't end. The ceiling is still intact. He’s eating pizza and playing video games, Kayla. He’s totally fine."
"I know, I know," I muttered, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, my face flushing with a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment. "I just always expect the other shoe to drop. It’s a reflex."
"Well, consider the shoe officially stayed on the foot." He stood up and walked over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back into the heat of his personal space. "Now, where were we before the 'inventory meeting' interrupted us?"
The rest of the night was a slow, beautiful blur. Without the ticking clock of Gabe’s curfew hanging over my head, the air felt lighter. We finished the wine, talking in low voices about everything and nothing—the way the ice feels during a power play, the books I used to read before I started reading ledgers, and the quiet, shared dreams that usually stayed tucked away in the dark.
Every touch felt intentional. Every kiss was a little deeper, a little more certain. By the time we made our way back down tothe street, the San Antonio heat felt less like a burden and more like a warm embrace.
The drive back to my apartment was quiet, the city lights streaking across the windshield of Michael’s car. When he pulled up to the curb outside my building, he didn't immediately kill the engine. He turned in his seat, reaching out to cup the back of my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
He leaned in, and the kiss was electric—a heady mix of the night’s cool mist and the lingering sweetness of the wine. My hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer, my heart doing that familiar, erratic dance.
"I should go," I whispered against his lips, though I made no move to open the door.
"You probably should," he breathed, kissing me again, harder this time.
He pulled back, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows of the cab. He stared at me for a long beat, his hand still anchored in my hair. Then, instead of reaching for the door handle or waiting for me to hop out, he reached for the gear shift.
The Jeep roared back to life, the vibrations thrumming through the floorboards.
"Michael?" I blinked, looking at the dashboard and then back at him. "What are you doing? I live right there."
He didn't look at the apartment building. He put the Jeep in drive and looked at me, a predatory flash in his gaze.
"Close the door and strap back in."
"What? Why? Where are we going?"
He reached over, his hand resting firm on my thigh as he began to pull away from the curb, merging back into the late-night traffic.
"I’ve changed my mind," Michael said, his voice dropping into a gritty, decisive growl. "This date isn't over."
29
Michael
I hunted for a gap in the late-night city traffic as if I were looking for a lane to the net in the dying seconds of a tied game. My heart was thundering a heavy, rhythmic demand that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of the playoffs and everything to do with the woman sitting in my passenger seat.
Kayla wasn't even pretending to be distracted by Gabe anymore. She leaned across the center console, her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my head toward hers every time we hit a red light. The air in the car was charged with the scent of her perfume and the cool, lingering mist from the rooftop.
"Michael," she breathed against my jaw, her teeth grazing the skin just below my ear. "Where are we going? You're going to get a ticket."
"Let them try to catch me," I growled, my hand tight on her thigh, my thumb hooked into the hem of her silk dress. "We're going to the Grand Hyatt. The team keeps a floor there for the playoffs. It’s five minutes away, and if I don't get you behind a locked door in four, I’m going to lose my mind."
She laughed a rich, breathless sound that vibrated against my throat, and kissed me again, her tongue sliding against mine with a greedy, uncoordinated hunger. We were acting like teenagers, reckless and feral, all the overthinking I was famous for discarded somewhere back on the River Walk.
I pulled into the valet at a clip that definitely raised an eyebrow, but I didn't care. I handed the kid my keys without looking at him, my arm already clamped around Kayla’s waist, pulling her flush against my side. We stumbled through the lobby, trying to maintain some semblance of decorum, but it was a losing battle.
I leaned over the marble counter, my face a mask of forced, pained stoicism as the night clerk looked up.
"Landry. Suite 1402," I said, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.
