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PROLOGUE

KIT

Lights strobed across the dance floor of Ignite, highlighting swaths of naked chests, rippling backs, upraised arms. Men were dancing—some just grinding—to the thumping bass.

What was I doing here? I was entirely out of place in my casual business attire of navy slacks and a bright teal polo.

I nudged my drink aside and pulled out my phone to check for new texts from my sister. It was her fault I was here. I reread the stream that had sent me on this wild-goose chase.

Dakota:

You should get out while you’re in Omaha.

Me:

I’m here for work.

Dakota:

Might as well make the most of it. You don’t get out enough.

Me:

Nah, I’m fine.

Dakota:

Go out and pretend you have a life already! If you don’t, I’ll find someone to set you up with.

Me:

Don’t you dare!

Dakota:

Have fun tonight ;)

My sister was diabolical. I’d never met someone who was better at getting their way. That’d been true even before she was in a wheelchair. Now that so many people fixated on her injury, she said she might as well use the one advantage she got out of it. She was kidding. Mostly.

So, when my meeting ended at the Nebraska Institute for Spinal Rehabilitation, I’d grabbed dinner with a few of the other physical therapists, then obediently pulled up a web search for gay clubs.

Ignite was a top result. It got great reviews for its cocktails. I hadn’t read much farther. I probably should have because this was really not my scene. I worked with bodies every day, putting them through their physical paces. I considered myself relatively athletic. And yet, seeing how some of those men moved on the dance floor? Maybe I’d gotten so used to my patients with limited mobility that I’d forgotten what the human body could really do, because damn.

Someone stepped up beside me at the bar, but I didn’t look over. The place was packed, and people had been coming and going to refresh drinks. I was the odd one out, the guy who was clinging to the bar like some kind of lifeline.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I glanced over, then did a double take. This guy was smoking hot. He had thick brown hair, a little sweaty and shoved back from his face, exposing the sharp cut of cheekbones and full lips. He wore a tight tank top that molded to his trim shape, exposing broad shoulders and a few peeks at a tattoo visible above the neckline.

I stared too long.

His lips quirked. “Is that a yes? I can’t tell.”

“Sorry.” I chuckled, heat flushing my cheeks. “Just a little overstimulated. Yes, you can buy me a drink. Hell, yes.”

He grinned, and damn, this guy was a knockout. He was a few years younger than me, maybe twenty-four to my twenty-seven. Despite the smile, there was an intensity to his eyes that suggested this guy had seen some shit in his life.

He motioned the bartender over. The big guy in a tight-fitting T-shirt had been hard to flag down earlier, but he came right away for this guy. And who wouldn’t?