Page 6 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)
CHAPTER SIX
ISLA
After work on Friday, I rush home to get ready for my date with Dawson. I’m not going to lie, I’ve been equally dreading and looking forward to this date since Monday. In fact, I feel like this has been the longest freaking week of my life.
I start by tearing through my closet at tornado speed.
“Option one: black jeans and a blouse. Is that trying too hard or not enough?” I hold up the combo, turning to Alfred. He blinks twice, then sighs.
“Option two: the blue dress. Slight cleavage, but does this make my arms look like ham hocks?” I do a quick twirl. Alfred offers a low, warbling groan. Savage.
I try on both, then three more, each time spinning in the mirror and deciding to try another look. By the end, my room looks like a textile bomb went off, and I’m sweating so bad I need another shower.
Half an hour later, I’m back at square one.
I end up picking out an entirely different outfit—this one a white sweater and navy skirt that hits just above the knee, looks professional but not boring, and hugs my curves perfectly.
I decide I’ll pair it with my favorite boots, which are technically out of season, but they make my calves look killer and hide the Band-Aid on my shin.
While the curling iron heats up, I reorganize my makeup tray. Then I rearrange the perfume bottles by color, then by size, then alphabetically.
I spritz on my usual scent, then panic that he’ll think it’s too strong, so I try to dab it off with a towel, but now it’s mixed with coconut conditioner and I smell like a spa exploded. I check the time and see it’s six forty-one.
I have nineteen minutes to get my shit together, so I rush to get ready. I hop back in the shower, rinse off the overpowering scent, and start over. At six fifty-eight, I’m finishing up my makeup when I realize I haven’t fed Alfred or Oreo. They both give me the same look of deep betrayal.
As I scoop kibble into their bowls, I address Alfred again. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I’m not really sure when Dawson Hot got under my skin.
Alfred licks the air, not even aiming for the food, then flops down in front of the doorway, blocking my escape and huffs, unimpressed.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’m lying. I’ve been looking forward to my date with Dawson all week.” I’m pretty sure these crazy feelings for Dawson aren’t going away. “He grew on me,” I explain to my dog. “Kinda like a fungus.”
Alfred gives me a “dumb human” look before trotting over to check out his dinner.
At six fifty-nine, I do one last spin in the mirror while taking several deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.
At exactly seven pm, my doorbell rings and I jolt, trip over Alfred, and catch myself on the hallway table. A picture frame wobbles but stays upright. I close my eyes and count to five before marching toward the door.
I glance out the security peephole, making sure it’s Dawson ringing my bell, then open the door with what I hope is a confident smile.
He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show forearms carved by years of real work, and a pair of dark jeans that cling to his thick thighs.
The shirt brings out his hypnotic blue eyes and his hair is a little messy, like he styled it then ran his hands through it several times.
He has a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, and an honest-to-God brown paper bag in the other.
“Hi.” His dimples pop out as he smiles down at me.
“Hi,” I manage, wondering where my sudden shyness is coming from.
He hands over the flowers first. “These are for you.”
I stare at the bouquet—sunflowers, little white daisies, and some weird purple stuff that looks like it belongs in a fairy garden. I glance up, realizing I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. “These are perfect. Thank you.”
He shrugs, suddenly looking a little bashful. “You’re welcome.”
I’m trying to get my brain to function with my mouth when Alfred barrels into the entryway, nose up and tail wagging. Instead of ignoring him, Dawson crouches down immediately and lets Alfred snuffle his hand.
“This must Alfred.” His voice is soft enough to make my heart squeeze.
“He might pee on your shoes if you startle him,” I warn, as Alfred promptly sits on Dawson’s foot.
Dawson grins, then opens the paper bag and pulls out a plastic-wrapped packet. “I brought him treats. Soft ones, for old man teeth.” He opens it and holds one out, and Alfred—traitor—immediately abandons me for the bribe.
“Okay, you’re officially his favorite,” I say, feigning exasperation as I watch Alfred inhale a biscuit in one bite.
Dawson stands, dusts his hands, then gestures at the bag again. “There’s something for Oreo, too.”
The way he says it, totally matter-of-fact, tells me he actually paid attention to our texts. I open the bag and find a little felt mouse stuffed with catnip, which is more thoughtful than any gift I’ve gotten from a human in… maybe ever.
“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.