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I can’t argue with that. Not with his hands on me, holding me steady, my body basically melting into a puddle of want. My heart tumbles around in my chest, fast and wild.

“I have to admit,” I rasp, voice trembling, but hell, I’m still proud of myself for forming words. “Your Post-it notes grew on me.” My hand slips under the hem of his shirt, skimming hot skin, and holy hell, that feels even better than I imagined.

He sucks in a sharp breath. For a second, the look he gives me is pure, unfiltered hunger. “Good to know. I’ll make sure to pull out the Post-its every now and then to keep you on your toes.”

I laugh, maybe a little breathless. Especially when his thigh is wedged tight between my legs and every nerve ending is screaming yes, please, more. “I look forward to it.”

He growls, low and rough. “Good. Because I don’t have a brake pedal when it comes to you, Sierra.” His grip on my waist is unbreakable. “I’m all fucking in.”

CHAPTER SIX

ROGAN

If I had to pick the exact moment I lose my mind, it’s probably three hours before the date, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel knotted at my waist, razor in hand. I’ve never been this goddamn nervous in my life.

I splash cold water over my face and brace my palms on the counter, leaning into the mirror like maybe if I stare hard enough, I’ll see some version of myself who isn’t about to self-combust at the thought of a woman in his kitchen.

Get it together, Hawke.

The plan seems straightforward enough. Cook her a steak dinner. Open a bottle of wine. Try to hold a reasonable conversation. If I’m really on my game, maybe I’ll get through the meal without embarrassing myself or making her want to run for the hills.

Easy, right?

I towel off and stalk across my bedroom, tossing the wet thing into the laundry. I’ve set out a shirt and my one pair of nice, hole-less jeans. I pull on the shirt and button it up, roll the sleeves just enough to give my forearms room to breathe.

I stare at my reflection a little too long. This is not me. I’m not the type to fuss over my appearance, to iron the collar or check the way the shirt hugs my shoulders. I always figured, if a woman didn’t like what she saw, she could look the other way.

But this isn’t about any woman.

This is Sierra.

Which is how I end up standing at my desk, palms sweating, chewing on the end of a pen while I scribble and re-scribble a note that isn’t supposed to look like it took me thirty goddamn tries.

I want her to know how much tonight’s date means to me. And exactly what she means to me.

In the end, I write the first thing that seems real:

My pulse is beating so loud in my ears it feels like a drum line as I slide the note under her door and walk away before I can talk myself out of it.

Then I spend the next two hours running around the kitchen like an actual maniac. I want everything perfect. I mean, it’s borderline embarrassing how hard I want to impress her, but there’s no going back now.

I ignore my pounding heart and get my ass into gear. I throw together a loaded, cheesy baked potato casserole. Then I toss fresh green beans with chili flakes and garlic, and sauté them in olive oil.

The steaks I picked out to grill are perfectly marbled, thick cut, and ready for the grill.

By the time I finish, the whole kitchen smells incredible. I check the clock. Fifteen minutes until seven.

I pace the kitchen. Re-check the seasoning on the steaks. Try to convince myself to stop fucking stressing.

I’m about to lose my mind when I hear soft, unhurried footsteps in the hall. The dining room opens onto the kitchen, and when I look up, she’s just there, standing in the doorway.

Time actually stops, and I almost swallow my tongue. Fuck. She’s so goddamn stunning.

She’s wearing a pink T-shirt, nothing fancy, and those black pants that fit her so well it’s criminal. Her wild hair is loose and falling over her shoulders, catching the evening light and shining with copper and gold. Her skin glows, and when she looks at me, her eyes are so wide and brown and alive I want to drown in them.

She smiles, and there’s something new in it—something that says she’s not nervous at all, or if she is, she’s not about to let it slow her down.

“Hey, Boss,” she says, voice low and smoky. “Is it dessert time already?”