Page 87 of Stalkers Anonymous

Future date planning. The words send a warm flutter through my chest.

“Bold of you to assume there will be future dates,” I tease, but I’m smiling so hard my face hurts.

“I’m an optimist.”

“Really? You don’t strike me as an optimist.”

“Fine. I’m a realist who’s optimistic about specific things.” His eyes meet mine, and the playfulness shifts into something more intense. “Things worth hoping for.”

Oh.

Oh.

The air between us grows charged. I’m suddenly very aware of the candlelight, the wine warming my blood, the way his voice dropped to a husky whisper on that last sentence.

I’m in so much trouble.

…

We finish dinner in a haze of undeniable attraction and burning sexual tension. Every accidental and not-so-accidental touch has me feeling weak at the knees. When our fingers graze reaching for the salt, electricity shoots up my arm, and when his knee bumps mine under the table, I practically aspirate my wine.

I’m a mess. A complete, hormonal disaster of a human being.

And judging by the way Cole’s eyes keep dropping to my lips, I’m not the only one.

When he insists on helping with dishes, we end up working side by side at my sink, and I find myself holding my breath. He’s so close I can smell every note of his cologne—sandalwood and soap. It makes me want to bury my face in his neck and just…inhale.

That’s normal, right? Wanting to smell someone? That’s a thing people do?

I can hear his every breath. In and out, slow and steady. Meanwhile, my heart is trying to escape through my rib cage.

When his arm brushes against mine for the fourth time, I breathe in sharply, fighting back the urge to look at him. If I turn now, when our faces are this close together, there’ll be no coming back from that.

“I should probably head home,” he says as we finish up, though he makes no move toward the door. “It’s getting late, and you’re on shift tomorrow. You need to sleep, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re not,” I assure him, drying my hands on a kitchen towel. “But you’re right about sleep. Night shift recovery is brutal.”

After a long moment of staring at each other, we finally break away from the counter, walking toward the front door like we’re being led to our own executions. I don’t want him to leave. I’m not ready for him to leave. Every step feels significant. Every breath feels heavy.

At the threshold, Cole turns to face me, and suddenly we’re standing so close I can see the darker ring around his hazel irises. His pupils are dilated.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says softly. “For everything. This was perfect.”

“It was no problem at all.” My voice comes out breathy.

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it might as well be a live wire the way it makes my whole body react.

“Hailey…”

“Yes?” Barely a whisper.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

My heart slams against my ribs. “What’s stopping you?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop if I start,” he confesses, his eyes dark with want. “And I know you need to rest. I can’t keep you up all night the way I want to.”

The raw honesty of his desire makes my stomach tighten, and that familiar ache I’ve been trying to ignore all night intensifies tenfold.