Page 12

12

austin

I ’ve changed my outfit ninety-two times.

The discarded rejects are draped across every piece of furniture in my bedroom, forming a colorful, chaotic pile that might actually be judging me. A graveyard of “almost” outfits. Too casual. Too dressy.

Too much cleavage.

Not enough cleavage .

I stand here staring at myself in the mirror in what might finally be the outfit …but suddenly I’m not sure anymore.

It’s the nerves. They’re throwing me off.

It’s weird because I don’t do nerves. As a professor I have to be self-assured and fully capable of keeping my composure. I’m cool. Sarcastic. Confident on most days.

Yet here I stand, red-faced and fidgety like a teenager getting ready for her first prom.

I’ve had to redo my makeup.

Twice.

Mostly because I still cannot figure out how to do a wing-tip at the corner of my eye, and kept smudging the liquid liner and UGH! How hard can it be?!

Apparently, hard enough .

I barely recognize myself. Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing or if I look like a contestant on one of those reality dating shows where they’re dolled up to see the love of their life for the first time.

Not that this is that, of course. Definitely not.

Grabbing my mascara again, I lean over the counter, squinting at my reflection as I fix the lashes on my left eye. They decided to rebel at the last minute, giving me that uneven, half-hearted look that doesn’t match the flawless right side.

Rude.

I carefully swipe it through the stubborn lashes, willing them to cooperate before I accidently smudge something. One wrong move and I’ll have to start over, and at this rate, I might combust if I redo my makeup a third time.

Satisfied, I lean back, examining my handiwork. Better. Not perfect, but good enough to make it look like I didn’t spend an hour agonizing over every tiny detail.

“Good as it’s gonna get,” I reason with myself, going to the closet.

This is dinner, not the Oscars, but Gio was right; as soon as he said the words ‘date’ and ‘heels’ I immediately began mentally scanning my closet for a dress. And shoes.

The dress I landed on is bodycon—sheer in all the right places, and ombre—from deep brown at the hem fading to a lighter beige shade up top. It screams: picture me naked !

It’s the kind of dress that demands flesh tone bra and underwear, which I had to dig through a drawer of mismatched options to find.

As a sweatpants on the weekend girlie, tight dresses and high heels aren’t normally my thing. Give me oversized hoodies and sneakers any day of the week, and I am thriving . But if I’m going to commit to this, I might as well commit all the way.

Go big or stay home.

There’s something about the tight fit that makes me stand a little taller (mostly because now that I’m dressed, I can barely breathe), and the sheer panels leave just enough to the imagination to make me wonder if I’m actually dressed too sexy.

It’s a fine line between looking good and looking like I tried way too hard, and I’m teetering dangerously close to the latter.

I glance down at my shoes. Beige, strappy, and clearly designed by someone who has never had to wear them for longer than ten minutes.

A man, probably.

I’d wobbled slipping them on, already envisioning my future as a meme: “Baddie tries to look cute, twists ankle before appetizer.”

I glance at the clock on my phone. Five minutes.

Time to grab my clutch and fill it with all the things I have in my other bag: gloss, ID, credit card, keys.

“Dinner’s going to be fine.” Gio, who’s been lying at my feet napping like the unbothered king he is, cracks one eye open at the sound of my voice. “I’m going to be fine. Worst-case scenario, he sucks at conversation and I can stuff myself with breadsticks.”

Love myself some carbs.

Yum.

I take one last look in the full-length mirror that is my closet door. Turn this way and that way so I can give my ass a glance. The dress, the heels, the makeup—I look pretty freaking gorgeous, if I do say so myself.

Damn, girl.

I hop in the Uber that just pulled up and we drive the several blocks to the restaurant; Gio—Human Gio, not the dog—offered to come pick me up, but I politely declined. Not because I don’t trust him, but because the idea of him showing up on my doorstep feels… too soon.

Also, there’s the matter of Little Gio.

My loyal, judgmental dog is home, probably snoozing in the exact spot where I left him. Introducing Human Gio to his namesake tonight feels like it’s going to be a whole thing and that can wait.

I giggle at the thought as I stare out the window at the city lights of Houston passing me by—everything feels a little brighter tonight.

A little more alive.

The ride is only a few, short minutes and my brain is already buzzing with what-ifs. What if I trip on the way in? What if I spill something. What if I have to fart?

He’s standing outside the restaurant when we pull up, looking so unbelievably handsome it should honestly be illegal. Like, dang. The kind of handsome that makes you rethink allll the questionable guys you’ve dated before and wonder why you ever settled for less.

My panties get wet by about 20%.

Gio is leaning casually against the railing for the building, his hands tucked into his pockets, shirt snug enough to hint at the body that spends more time at the gym than I spend watching Netflix. Which is a ton.

His hair looks effortlessly perfect, like he woke up five minutes ago and decided to make the rest of us mere mortals feel inferior.

Smoking hot.

I take one last deep breath, smoothing down my dress and checking my lipstick in my phone’s camera.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself as I step out onto the curb. For a second, I think my knees might give out. Or my heels might. Either way, I say a silent prayer that I can walk ten feet to him without face-planting and my life flashes before my eyes.

“Wow,” he says, his voice all warm and gooey. “You look.” He lets out a low whistle. “Incredible.”

And then I notice the flowers.

How did I not see them before?

The bouquet is a mix of soft pinks and whites, with little pops of green that make it look like something out of a Pinterest board. It’s not one of those over-the-top, massive arrangements you see in romantic comedies—just thoughtful, simple, perfect.

He holds them toward me. “These are for you.”

I take them, bringing them to my nose so I can sniff their delicate fragrance and smile into them, too, before raising my gaze at him.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice softer now. “They’re beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he replies, his tone so sincere I almost roll my eyes but don’t have the heart.

Gio surprises me further by leaning down and kissing me—on the cheek, next to my mouth. The contact is fleeting—just a whisper of warmth—but sends a zippy little jolt straight through me.

Straight to my lady parts, to be specific.

Panties = 25%.

Then it occurs to me.

I have a crush on him.

I have a crush on one of the nation’s hottest, most eligible hockey players and he’s gazing down at me as if I were…

As if…

He has a giant crush on me, too, all starry-eyed; the kind of look that belongs in a romance novel. The kind of look that makes you forget you’re standing on a city sidewalk clutching a bouquet of flowers while your brain turns to MUSH!

Ugh!

“You smell good.” He makes my legs even wobblier with that deep rasp and my brain scrambles for a witty response.

“So do you,” I manage, my voice soft and breathless. Wow, Austin. Bravo. For a college professor who lectures in front of hundreds of people on a weekly basis, you really have a way with words.

As he opens the door to the building for me, I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the glass—him: tall and effortlessly handsome. Me: sexy and serious and clutching the bouquet in my hand like it’s some kind of lifeline.

For a split second, I wonder if I’m dreaming .

Someone pinch me.

My brain scrambles—desperately, hopelessly—for a witty, clever something to say—as we step into the elevator for our climb to the restaurant. When those doors close, the soft hum of motion fills the space as we begin our ascent.

I glance at the glowing numbers above the door—75th floor. Of course it has to be one of the tallest buildings in the city, giving me way too much time to stew in my own thoughts.

Gio leans casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching me with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Nervous?” he asks, his lips twitching into a teasing smile.

I lift my chin, determined to be nonchalant. “Why would I be nervous?”

He shrugs. “I’m nervous so I thought maybe you might be.” He smiles over at me. “Guess I was wrong.”

That gets my attention. I glance up at him, arching an eyebrow. “You’re nervous?”

“Sure. First date with a smart, beautiful woman? Hell yeah I am.”

Moments tick by. We continue to ascend, the soft hum of the elevator the only sound filling the small, enclosed space. The air feels heavier now, charged with something I can’t quite put into words. Tension? The space around us seems smaller and smaller with each passing second, like the walls are closing in—or maybe it’s just him.

I can’t decide if I want to step back or step closer.

Turns out, I don’t have to decide.

Gio pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us in one smooth, deliberate motion. He stops just short of touching me, his eyes locked on mine, and the tension is so thick it’s hard to breathe.

He does not hesitate…

Our mouths meet.

It’s not the soft, tentative kind of kiss you’d expect on a first date .

No, this kiss is bold, confident, and completely devastating in the best way possible. His hand brushes against my waist, grazing the fabric of my dress, and I swear I forget how to breathe.

His hands grip my ass.

Squeeze.

The elevator dings, announcing our arrival at the 75th floor and we pull apart. The doors slide open to reveal a stunning view of the city skyline and when we pull away from each other—enough to catch our breath…

I’m left dizzy. Disoriented.

My hands are still resting on his chest as I try to regain some semblance of control.

“We can’t make that a habit.” I lift my chin and exit the elevator, heels clicking loudly against the polished stone floor. “It’s so unprofessional.”

His laughter booms out behind me.

It follows me as the hostess leads us through the dining area, echoes faintly as we’re seated at our table.

And our banter continues—soft and teasing—even after we’ve ordered drinks and our meal.

The view is stunning, all glittering city lights and endless horizon, but it pales in comparison to the way he’s looking at me. His eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners as his laughter finally dies down, though the smirk playing on his lips suggests he’s far from done with this topic.

“You’re so fucking adorable.” He leans forward then, resting his forearms on the table and fixing me with a gaze so penetrating it makes me squirm.

Panties = 33%

“You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Cute,” I repeat, unimpressed, though my pulse is betraying me with how fast it’s racing. “Cute is for toys and hairstyles and…” I trail off, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Ugh.”

His eyes drop to my neckline—or lack thereof. “Not sure I’d call that neckline ‘cute,’” he rumbles, sending a warm shiver down my spine. He takes a slow pull from his cocktail, a bourbon old fashioned with three cherries, the movement impossibly distracting. “Stunning.”

His eyes flick back up to mine.

My chin notches. “I like that description better.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. “Don’t worry—you can be sexy and cute at the same time. I’m great at multitasking.”

I hesitate to ask the next question, but the spark between us is impossible to ignore and curiosity wins out, so here it goes: “What else are you good at? Besides hockey?”

He leans forward at that, his drink still in hand but forgotten for the moment, his eyes darkening just slightly. “You want a list?”

Panties = 50%

Wait, no = 52%

“Depends,” I reply, lifting my glass to my lips to cover the slight hitch in my breath. “Is it a long list?”

His grin widens, the expression both lazy and predatory. “Very.”

God help me he’s one sexy motherfucker.

I set my drink down, fingers lightly brushing the rim of the wine glass as I try to hold onto some semblance of control.

“Well,” I say, forcing a steady tone. “I guess I’m asking for the highlight reel.”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make me fidget. Studies me, tilting his head and tapping the side of his cocktail glass with his thumb.

“I’m good with my hands,” he says at long last before raising it to his lips again. I can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down in his throat as he swallows.

Why is that hot?

My mouth feels suddenly dry, and I grab my wine glass to take a sip, the cool liquid doing little to steady the racing of my heart.

I shift in my seat, ankles crossing and uncrossing under the table, the fabric of my dress brushing against my skin in a way that only adds to the heat simmering between us.

Squirm some more.

“What else?” I ask, my entire body practically burning up.

Gio takes another swig of his drink before swirling the amber liquid lazily as he studies me, the giant ice cube inside clinking side-to-side.

“Well. I’m good at reading people,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in a knowing smirk. “Like right now, for example.”

I take another sip of my wine, desperately trying to compose myself, but the way he’s looking at me, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, makes it nearly impossible.

He wants me to ask and I oblige, because what else is there for me to say except: “What about me? What am I thinking?”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me with that same penetrating gaze, and for a moment, the silence stretches, thick and heavy, until I’m readjusting myself in my seat.

“You’re wondering,” he continues, his voice dipping even lower, “if my hands would be as good as I said they are.”

My eyes lower to his hands again, still gripping that glass, thumb stroking the side of it.

Up.

Down.

Up…

Down.

The rhythmic motion is maddening. Fascinating. Hypnotic. I can’t look away. I can’t stop thinking about that thumb running back and forth over my cli?—

He knows exactly what he’s doing .

“You’re staring,” he points out, his tone teasing, though there’s an unmistakable heat behind it .

“So?” No point in denying it; doing so would only make him more impossible. “Was I not supposed to look?”

Before he can respond—his mouth is literally hanging open to speak—the server appears at the edge of the table, her bright, cheerful voice breaking the tension like a glass shattering on the floor.

“Here we go!” she says brightly, setting a plate in front of me and one in front of Gio. “One medium and one medium well!”

I blink, momentarily disoriented, and murmur a polite “Thank you” as the smell of seared steak and roasted summer vegetables wafts up to greet me.

The silence that follows when she walks away is heavy—still charged with that building sexual tension—hitting play on whatever game we’d been playing.

“Convenient timing.” I pick up my fork, stabbing a roasted carrot more aggressively than necessary.

“Was it?” he teases, picking up his knife and fork. “Now it’s your turn to give me your list of things you’re good at. It’s only fair.”

“Alright, fine,” I say, setting my fork down and leaning back in my chair. “I’m good at teaching, obviously. Debating. Making spreadsheets.”

“Spreadsheets?” he repeats, his lips twitching as if he’s trying not to laugh.

“Yes, spreadsheets,” I tell him firmly, lifting my chin—daring him to judge me. “They’re very useful and require a lot of skill.”

“I’m sure they do,” he says, his eyes gleaming with barely contained laughter.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re mocking me.”

“I mean—it was a pretty fucking nerdy thing to say.”

I lift my chin to look affronted, despite the fact I’m trying so desperately not to laugh. “It depends on who you’re asking. Some people appreciate organization and efficiency.”

God I sound like a prude.

Organization and efficiency ?

My vagina dries up a fraction at my own, dull words .

Gio chuckles at me quietly, shaking his head. “Sure, but those people probably aren’t sitting across from you right now.”

“And what exactly would you prefer I say?” He wants me to match his energy, to throw it right back at him. But for some reason, the words feel clunky coming out of my mouth, stiff and awkward like I’m trying too hard.

I have no idea what my problem is—why I sound so stuffy and rigid.

I need to loosen up.

Relax, Austin.

He’s flirting with you, and he wants you to flirt back.

“Alright, Professor,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make my stomach flip. “What else?”

The heat in his gaze sends a spark of confidence through me, and I decide to stop overthinking.

“I’m good at reading people,” I tease, throwing his earlier words back at him with a playful smile.

His grin widens, slow and dangerous, and I can tell he’s enjoying this.

“Oh, are you?”

“Mm-hmm,” I reply, leaning back in my chair with a cocky air, my wine glass dangling loosely between my fingers. “It’s a gift. Comes in handy.”

“What do you read when you look at me?”

I take a moment, letting the question settle, my eyes drifting over him as if I’m truly analyzing him.

Then.

I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching.

“I see a man who likes to be in control, but not because he’s controlling.” It’s because he has had to take care of his sister, provide for her, and be a grown-up sooner than anyone should have to.

His smirk fades entirely, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything; when his jaw tenses, I’m worried I may have hit a nerve.

“You’re good at being the adult,” I choose my words carefully. “Stepping in when no one else would. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel the weight of responsibility.”

For a moment, the playful banter is gone, replaced by a silence that feels heavier, more intimate. He leans back in his chair, his drink forgotten on the table, and just…

Looks at me.

“That’s quite the read,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

“Did I get it wrong?” I ask softly.

He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he says softly, resting his knife on the edge of his plate. “You didn’t get it wrong.”

I eat a few more bites, letting the silence stretch and marinate between us, comfortable and unspoken.

“Also,” I murmur, glancing up at him under my long lashes. “You hate spreadsheets.”

That earns me a full laugh, rich and genuine, and I shiver, enjoying the sound of it. Me—I made him laugh like that. A laugh so loud several patrons in the restaurant turned to stare at us.

“I don’t hate spreadsheets. I just think there are more exciting things to look at.”

“Like what ?”

“You.”

I totally knew he was going to say that.

He walked right into it.

Panties = 80% wet.

He sets his glass down, removing the napkin from his lap. Gio leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as if he were ready to leave. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” I echo, my eyebrows lifting .

I don’t love surprises.

He nods, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips. “But there’s a catch.”

“Of course there is.” I lean back in my chair. “Hmm, what’s the catch?”

“You’ll have to give up dessert,” he says, his tone light, but his eyes never leave mine.

I narrow my gaze at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious. “Give up dessert? Do you know how hard it was not to order the molten lava cake?”

“I promise,” he says, leaning closer, his voice dipping just enough to make my stomach flip. “This is better than cake.”

Better than cake.

Is it dick? I want to ask, but don’t have the nerve. Actually, I wonder what he would say if those were the words that came out of my mouth.

“Do I get a hint?”

“Nope. You just have to trust me.”

“Not even a little one?” I press, my curiosity already eating away at me.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Patience is a virtue, Austin.”

“Yes, and I have none.”