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I look at him. He looks at me. No one moves.

“I’m not looking to date anyone.” I mutter. My life is way too busy right now to add in a spoiled athlete who needs his ego stroked.

Then I pull my hand back, careful, like disarming a trip wire. “I have to be up early,” I say, which is mostly true. Tomorrow is my day off, but I have a ton of housework and laundry to do.

Mick just nods. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to,” he says, and the simplicity of it undoes me a little.

Harper calls across the table. “Mia, you going already? We haven’t even started the real celebration.”

“You’re three glasses ahead,” I say suddenly jealous of the happiness radiating from her. “I’d never catch up.” Pull your shit together. I tell myself.

She blows me a kiss, then gives me the double eyebrow raise again. Mick stands, waiting for me to gather my things. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t hover. He just waits, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The evening winds down around us. I take a small step, and for a second, I’m unsteady—not from the champagne, but from the realization that I want him to keep holding my hand. I want a lot of things I’ll never say out loud.

But I take my purse, square my shoulders, and let him lead me out into the soft, pine-scented night.

As we walk to the car, neither of us says a word. It’s the kind of silence you could cut and serve for dessert.

I keep my hands wrapped tight around my purse strap, so I don’t do something incredibly stupid, like reach for him first.

Mick’s car is black, spotless, all sharp lines and brushed steel. He opens the passenger door for me, waits until I’m inside and buckled, then circles around to the driver’s seat and slides in.

He starts the engine, and for a second the only sound is the low click of the dashboard lighting up. There’s a bare whisper of jazz playing under the hum of the heater. He glances at me, confirms I’m good, then puts the car in drive and pulls out of the resort.

We don’t speak for the first ten minutes. I just watch the trees blur past in the dark, headlights sweeping over moss and cedar. My hands start out folded, then migrate to crossed arms, then drop to my lap, fidgety and uncertain. I can feel the flush of champagne in my cheeks, a slow-burn warmth that will probably last until morning.

He drives one-handed, the other relaxed in his lap, except at the tight curves where both hands flex around the wheel and the sleeve of his jacket pulls back enough to show the thick white scar on his wrist. I want to ask how he got it, but I don’t.

There’s a crackle of streetlamps as we leave the woods behind. The city glows ahead. Since it’s so late traffic is light. The roads are wet and shining. We don’t talk again until we’re within sight of my building, a mid-rise in a fairly decent neighborhood not too far from the hospital.

He finds a spot right out front, kills the engine. Then he just sits, hands on the wheel, looking out through the windshield like there’s something crucial waiting for him in the dark.

“I can make it from here,” I say and reach for the door handle.

He reaches over and places his hand on my knee. Heat and electricity flow through me and I feel that light touch all the way down to my core. “I’ll walk you.”

“That isn’t⁠—”

“Stop arguing,” he says, and I give up because I’m too tired to fight him. Or the crazy feelings being this close to him cause.

He opens his door, walks around to open the passenger door for me. He takes my hand and helps me out of the car. As we walk up the sidewalk, he matches his stride to mine, easy and natural. The night is wet and cold, but I don’t feel it. When we reach my door, he stops close enough that I can smell the sharp, clean edge of his cologne.

We stand there, neither of us moving. I want to say something, but words are not my strong suit right now.

Then he does the thing. He leans in, careful and deliberate, and kisses me. Holy mother of god. My brain shorts out like a cheap string of Christmas lights.

Mick kisses me slow and deep, no hesitation, taking his time and absolutely owning my mouth. His lips are soft, warm, but there’s a low growl in the back of his throat that turns my insides molten. I fist my hands in his jacket, desperate for something to hang on to, and lose myself in the taste of whiskey and stubborn, impossible man.

He slants his mouth over mine, tongue teasing, coaxing, until I open for him and he takes everything I have left. My knees go weak. There’s not an ounce of distance between us, chest to chest, and I swear I feel his entire body lock down like he’s fighting the urge to toss me over his shoulder and carry me inside.

I don’t even try to hold back. My body makes the call before my brain can veto. I kiss him back, reckless and hungry and starved.

He rewards me by pressing in, one big hand sliding around to the small of my back, pulling me close until I’m practically floating. “Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.