Page 81 of Pucking One Night Stand

I grab my bag from the passenger seat, open the door, and step out.

It’s cooler now. Vegas doesn’t do cold often, but there’s a breeze that slides between my shoulder blades and under my hem.

I walk past his truck, my fingers grazing the metal side mirror like it might anchor me.

A small pathway with desert-friendly landscaping leads to his front door.

Butterflies. Actual butterflies. And not the gentle kind, these are caffeinated, erratic, and borderline violent.

I press the doorbell and wait.

A shadow shifts behind the frosted glass, broad shoulders, tall frame. The door creaks open, and I blink.

Blake Mitchell, in a grey suit, a tie knotted just a little too tight, and over it, the most ridiculous apron I’ve ever seen in my life. A full front print of some oiled-up, cartoonishly muscular bodybuilder in a thong, complete with glistening abs and biceps the size of watermelons.

His face, bruised, puffed, still carrying the signs of a fight, is practically glowing beneath it all. He grins like a man who knows he’s ridiculous and doesn’t care in the slightest.

“Cassy. Jesus,” he says, stepping forward and pressing a soft kiss to my lips that short-circuits the butterflies entirely. “You look amazing. Please…come in.”

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely hanging onto its composure as the smell of lasagna wraps itself around me like a warm, cheesy fog.

“Wow,” I say, stepping inside. “Very suave. Debonair. And still handsome, even if you do look like you’ve been in a bar brawl with a fridge.”

He smirks, then takes my hand. “Flattery will get you lasagna. Follow me.”

We move through a hall that smells faintly of aftershave and furniture polish, and into the living room. Masculine doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s filled with clean lines, low lighting, a giant TV, and a cream leather sofa like it’s been lifted straight out of a catalog called Bachelor Deluxe: Subtle Edition.

“Something smells good,” I say. “I wasn’t aware you could actually cook. I thought you just survived on protein bars, period.”

“Don’t get too worked up,” he says, leading me toward the back of the house. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”

And then we step through the open glass doors into the backyard, and I stop.

Okay. This I was not expecting.

The backyard looks like something out of a rom-com I’d normally complain about while secretly crying. Fairy lights dance along the fence. A small table sits in the middle of the lawn with candles, flowers, plates, and cutlery. A bottle of wine catches the glow like it belongs in an ad.

He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, stunned into rare silence. He takes the seat across from me, then reaches for the bottle.

“Wine?” he asks, his hand poised.

I put a hand over my glass. “Can’t. Remember? Pregnant.”

He grins, not offended in the slightest. “Yeah. I know.”

He turns the bottle around and shows me the label. Non-alcoholic.

“Well,” I say, removing my hand from the glass. “In that case…”

He pours for both of us, then sets the bottle down and lifts his glass.

“To you, me, and your belly.”

Just as I pick up mine and clink it with his, his face shifts from soft affection to full-blown panic.

“Shit,” he blurts. “The lasagna. I meant to take it out of the oven!”

He bolts back inside like the house is on fire.