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“Hey, handsome.”

His tail thumped.

I crouched and scratched behind his ears. “At least you're not going to ask me when I'm getting married.”

He rolled onto his back, and I rubbed his belly. After a minute, I stood and looked out over the property. From Damon's porch, the view was breathtaking.

Rows of grapevines stretched across the hills, their leaves catching the afternoon sunlight. Beyond them, the land rolled toward the ocean, where the water glittered like someone had scattered diamonds across its surface.

A warm breeze carried the scent of salt air and earth.

Everything was quiet. Peaceful. Beautiful. I rested my hands on the porch railing. And a thought slipped into my head. I could get used to this.

Oh, absolutely not.

I immediately slapped some metaphorical electrical tape over that thought and shoved it into a soundproof box.

Because I couldn't get used to this. I lived across the country. I ran a global company.

I had responsibilities, obligations, meetings, deadlines, and an entire life that existed nowhere near this porch.

Damon wasn't my boyfriend. This wasn't my home. And whatever warm, fluttery feeling had taken up residence in my chest wasn't something I could afford to examine too closely.

This was temporary. Make-believe. A carefully constructed arrangement with an expiration date.

None of this is real, I repeated that to myself as I stood on Damon's porch, looking out at the ocean.

The problem was, for the first time in my life, the make-believe was starting to feel a whole lot better than reality.

13

SPINAL CORD TRUST ISSUES

Mikayla

The woman staring back at me from the mirror was a stranger. Not the kind of stranger who’d lost her keys or forgotten her coffee order, the kind who’d apparently forgotten that she didn’t do nervous.

I was a woman who faced down boardrooms full of sharks in Armani without flinching. I could negotiate contracts with men who had more money than God without breaking a sweat. But apparently, picking out an outfit to wear around Damon Lockhart required a full-blown identity crisis. I stood, surrounded by the wreckage of four rejected outfits, hyperventilating over a scavenger hunt.

Not a date. A scavenger hunt. Adults running around the city chasing clues like overgrown children, who had access to alcohol and questionable judgment. Nothing romantic about it. Nothing to see here. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous. And yet, I'd changed outfits four times.

I’d settled on my “good butt” jeans. Every woman has that one pair that showcases their backside like a billboard in Times Square. Mine were faded black and hugged my hips and ass before falling into a relaxed, wide-leg cut. I paired them with a fitted white top that slipped off one shoulder, showing just enough skin to be sexy without looking like I was trying too hard.

A black leather belt with a vintage gold buckle, black ankle boots, and a few pieces of delicate gold jewelry pulled everything together. My hair fell in loose waves around my shoulders, and I'd traded my usual understated makeup for smoky eyes and a glossy nude lip.

Sexy. Casual. Effortless.

If you ignored the forty-five minutes of effort. I gave myself one last look. Then took a breath and walked out of the bathroom.

Damon stood near the dresser with his back to me, fastening his watch. He wore jeans that appeared to be faded specifically to ruin my concentration, and a Henley with the sleeves pushed up on his chiseled, tattooed forearms.

When he turned around, my breath caught. Good Lord. The man was indecent. His shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and chest, giving just enough indication of what was underneath to make my imagination go to R-rated places.

He looked like the kind of man who could win in a fight without throwing a punch, fix a tractor, and ruin a woman's life before lunch. And while I appreciated this version of Damon Lockhart, if given the choice, I'd still take him in gray sweatpants. Shirt optional. Preferably absent.

His gaze swept over me. Slowly. From my boots to my hips, over my waist, and finally to my face.

I felt every inch of that look like a physical touch.