Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Wow,” I say, genuinely thrown. “You really did your homework.”
He leans against the doorframe, one shoulder propped casually against the white trim, his broad firefighter's frame making my entryway seem suddenly narrow. His eyes follow my every movement as I arrange the wildflowers in my favorite blue ceramic vase.
I fumble with the packaging on the catnip mouse, my fingernails catching on the plastic while Oreo stalks closer from the kitchen shadows, his bottle-brush tail twitching with predatory anticipation.
"I wanted to make a good impression," Dawson says, his voice dropping to a honeyed rumble that vibrates through the small space between us. His gaze holds mine, steady and just a little bit wicked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that dimpled half-smile that makes my stomach flutter. "This is too important to fuck up."
I barely hear him, because my entire apartment suddenly feels three sizes too small. He’s filled the space with his energy, his scent—there’s that same aftershave from the day of his arrest, something woodsy and sharp and clean—and my heart is racing so hard I hope to God I don’t have a heart attack.
He glances around, taking in the neatness of my space. I see him clock the spotless countertops, the color-coded bookshelves, the way every single thing in the living room is perfectly squared to the edge of the rug.
“You keep it tidy,” he says, not judging, just noticing.
I cross my arms, self-conscious. “It’s a habit.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he says, smiling. “I like knowing where things are.”
I stand there, holding the flowers, not sure what to do with my hands or my face or my entire body. We hover for a beat, him watching me, me pretending not to notice how close he’s gotten.
“So, where’re we going?” he asks, voice lower now, almost conspiratorial.
I glance down at my boots, fighting a grin that threatens to split my face. "It's a surprise. I got reservations at my favorite restaurant."
He leans in, close enough that I can see the navy-blue flecks swimming in his ocean-colored eyes, close enough that the spicy cedar scent of his cologne wraps around me like an embrace. "Can't wait," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the narrow space between us.
For a full, heart-stopping second, I think he might kiss me, right there in the doorway with the hallway light casting golden shadows across his chiseled jawline, but instead, he just offers his arm, old-fashioned and charming as hell.
I hesitate, my fingers hovering in the air between us, then slide my hand into the crook of his elbow. His skin radiates warmth through the crisp cotton of his shirt, and his bicep is rock-hard beneath my fingertips, sculpted from years of hauling fire equipment.
"Ready?" he asks, his dimples deepening like twin crescent moons.
A sudden thought occurs to me. Alfred and Oreo don’t like to be left alone after dark. "I just need to leave the TV on for Alfred and Oreo." I head to the living room, grab the remote with slightly trembling fingers, and turn on the TV. The screen flickers to life, bathing the room in a blue glow. It only takes a few clicks to find their favorite—The Big Bang Theory, the familiar theme song filling the apartment as I turn to find Dawson standing next to me.
"That's my favorite show," Dawson says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Those simple words seal his hold on my heart like a wax stamp on a love letter.
“Mine, too. I’ve watched every episode at least a hundred times,” I sheepishly admit.
“I’ve probably watched them more than that.” He follows me to the front door and opens the door for me. We step into the hallway's fluorescent brightness, and Alfred barks once in sharp protest to us leaving.
As we walk out together, our shoulders occasionally brushing, I realize I'm still smiling. I glance over at him, catch him looking back at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip, and feel my pulse jump like a startled rabbit.
Yep. I'm in deep, drowning willingly, and I’ve never been happier. Letting my uninterested mask slip around Dawson was the biggest risk I’ve ever taken. And I’m hoping it becomes the best decision I’ve ever made.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAWSON
Bella Notte sits right on the corner of Main Street and Broadway, its brick façade meticulously maintained with glossy black trim and a single discreet gold sign. The second we step through the front door, the intimate space unfolds. There are only twelve tables arranged with mathematical precision, each draped in crisp white linen and set with gleaming silverware. A hint of garlic and butter drifts from the partially visible kitchen, where a chef in spotless whites works with quiet intensity.
Dean Martin croons "That's Amore" overhead while the candles on each table provide just enough glow to navigate between chairs without tripping.