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T he drive to my place is short.

Like, blink-and-you-miss-it short.

But with Kian O’Malley behind the wheel? It feels like an eternity.

Holy hell, I’m in his truck.

His actual truck.

Not some dream sequence, not a fever fantasy brought on by working doubles and skipping lunch.

This is real.

And I have no chill.

Because Kian isn’t just good-looking. He’s not some “Oh, he’s cute if you squint” kind of guy.

No, he’s like boy band hot .

Like, late-90s-mega-heartthrob-meets-Outlander-hero hot.

Sure, I’ve seen plenty of attractive men. I don’t live in a hole, thank you very much.

But Kian?

He’s in another category entirely.

I’m a natural blonde. But where my hair is just pale— more faded than gold, like something out of a sun-bleached magazine ad for hair dye —his is bold and bright.

Glittering gold, kissed with dark roots and warm, tawny lowlights, like the sun and the earth decided to get drunk and make art on his head.

And it’s straight.

No curl. No frizz.

Just that perfect, wild kind of messy that only the unfairly hot can pull off.

It’s glossy in a way that shouldn’t be possible unless you’re the spokesperson for a shampoo commercial.

I can literally picture him stepping out of the shower, water dripping from his bare chest— down, Arliss, down —towel slung over his hips, running his big, capable, manly fingers through his hair like it’s no big deal.

Boom. Perfection.

No leave-in conditioner.

No detangling spray.

No homemade mayonnaise hair masks or olive oil treatments.

Meanwhile, I’m in the trenches every week, fighting split ends and humidity like it’s a full-time job.

So yeah. Sour grapes?

You bet your ass.

He clears his throat, and it’s enough to soak my panties.

“So, uh, how was work?”

It’s awkward and endearing and makes me want to roll my eyes and melt at the same time.

“Fine,” I say, short and sweet.

“Good. Did, uh, that guy come back?”

I blink. “What guy? Oh, you mean the one whose face you rearranged for no reason?”

I am goading him. Trying to get a reaction, because really, this man just confuses the shit out of me.

I’m not disappointed.

Kian frowns, eyes on the road, and mutters, “There was a reason.”

I arch a brow. “Do tell.”

If he’s going to play the broody hero card, I wanna know what’s really behind it.

He shrugs, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “He was bothering you.”

“He was drunk.”

“He shouldn’t talk to you like that. I didn’t like it.”

The way he says it. All low and intense, almost like he’s surprised by how much it bugged him, makes something inside me flutter.

Still, I cross my arms, not letting him off that easy.

“ He shouldn’t talk to me like that? Kian, the first time I met you, you literally bowled me over and asked me out before I could catch my breath.”

“Yeah, but I’m not like him.”

I tilt my head, watching him. “Oh? And what makes you so different? He didn’t mean it any more than you did.”

The second the words leave my mouth, something shifts.

His jaw clenches.

But it’s his eyes that grab me.

They’re stormy and deep. A sort of thundercloud gray meets brown, and, in the dashboard glow, I can see they’re flecked with a million shards of gold.

So damn intense.

When his gaze cuts toward me, I can feel it in my bones.

And just like that, the air inside the truck is thick with unspoken things.

Regret.

Longing.

Need.

And something else.

Something I’m afraid to name.

Something he’s clearly not ready to explain.

But suddenly, I’m not so sure I was right about him not meaning it.

Not at all.