“He wasn’t?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘easy.’ For the next few years I trimmed grass by hand with fucking garden shears. I carried boulders, scrubbed floors, reshingled the goddamn roof—real Mr. Miyagi, wax-on-wax-off kind of shit. He rode my ass—nothing was ever good enough. It made me want to do everything better, just to fucking spite the bastard. And then . . . he had me start doing research. Studying case law, drafting briefs, analyzing opinions—it was fascinating to me. When my probation was up, the Judge offered me a job. By then I’d gotten my head out of my ass and was actually scoring decent grades in high school. With his recommendation and a shitload of student loans, I got through college, then law school . . . and that’s all she wrote.”

“I think that’s amazing,” she says softly, watching me.

“Yeah—the Judge is a pretty amazing guy.”

Her lips slide into a gentle smile and something like awe shines in her eyes. “I was talking about you.”

I’m hardly ever taken off guard. Surprised. But this stunning wisp of a woman just did exactly that.

Chelsea turns her head toward the piano music floating in from the other room. “I love this song.”

It’s a Van Morrison cover—“Crazy Love.”

I toss my napkin on the table and move to stand next to her, holding out my hand. “Would you like to dance?” And I can tell I just surprised her too. The simple delight on her face when her hand slides into mine makes me want to do it again.

We step out onto the edge of the dance floor. I wrap my arm around her lower back, holding her tight and flush against me. One of Chelsea’s hands rest on my shoulder, toying with the hair at the nape of my neck. The other is clasped in mine just over my heart. We sway, just looking at each other for a few moments.

“I was going to ask you to dance,” she tells me. “But you don’t seem like the type who would’ve said yes.”

“I’m not,” I answer, staring at her lush mouth. “I was just using it as an excuse to be closer to you.”

She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love.

She sighs, practically sinks into my arms. Chelsea’s head fits against my chest like she was made to be there. My chin rests against her hair, and I smell clean and sweet vanilla.

“Hey, Jake?”

“Yeah?”

Chelsea lifts her head from my chest. “You don’t need an excuse.”

I lower my head at the same moment she reaches up for me. And her lips—fuck—they’re warm, soft, and move with such innocent daring, I’m practically trembling. Was it just last night that I first kissed her? It seems longer ago. I cup her cheek, stroking her skin with my thumb, kissing deeper, tasting wine and the moan I’ve been obsessing over all night.

And the absolute craziest part of it all? I haven’t gotten laid in three goddamn weeks, but if this is all we do—kissing, with her against me, my arms around her—I’ll be grinning in the morning like a guy who banged a whole sorority house full of cheerleaders.

I’m hoping for more. I want everything—all the secret, sweetest parts of her—but if this is all I get to have tonight? It’s enough.

She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love . . .

14

With Chelsea inside, I close the passenger door to the Mustang and tip the valet. Then I slide in behind the wheel and pull away from the restaurant.

Moment of truth.

“I set my mom and Owen up in the upstairs guest room, so they don’t have to drive back to Baltimore tonight.”

“Okay.” She nods.

I skim the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. “That means we could go to my place or head—”

“Your place is good,” Chelsea says in a rush that makes me grin.

“My place it is.”

On the ride over, I think about how it’ll go down. Don’t want to be overeager—can’t jump her the minute I get in the door.

No matter how much I fucking want to.

I’ll have to move slow, be smooth. Romance her. Offer her a drink, give her a tour. It’s not like I haven’t done this before, but it feels different this time. Because I know her.

Because I actually . . . like her—no matter how ridiculously inadequate that sounds.

• • •

I walk in the door ahead of Chelsea, flicking the switch on the wall that turns on the low light of the corner table lamp, illuminating black leather couches, hardwood floors, and bare walls. I’m not much for decorating.

Chelsea closes the door behind us, and I toss my keys on the table. I turn around to her, asking, “Would you like somethin—”

But I never finish the sentence.

Chelsea collides with me, arms around my neck, practically crawling up my torso, pulling me down and locking our lips. It’s totally fucking unexpected.

And a total fucking turn-on.

Her breasts press against my chest, her hips gyrate against me—providing glorious friction against the straining boner trapped between us. And her mouth—god—she sucks at my tongue, nibbles on my lip, traps it between her teeth and tugs, one small step above pain that threatens to make me lose my goddamn mind.

When her hand skims down my shirt and rubs against the fabric-covered outline of my cock, I groan. “Jesus, slow down.”

She pulls back, panting, “I don’t want to slow down.”

And she sounds so sure—confident and whimperingly needy at the same time—my heart starts to pound out of my chest.

“Okay.”

My hands dive under her dress, grasping hot, firm thighs, just below her ass, and I lift, wrapping those perfect legs around my waist. Her fingers burrow through my hair as I angle my head, covering her mouth with mine. When I return the favor—sucking and biting, scraping those plump lips with my teeth like I’ve been dreaming about for weeks—a sharp keening sound vibrates from Chelsea’s throat, and I swear to Christ, I almost come right then and there.