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Chapter 13

Carina

M y pulse is racing like mad.

But who could blame me?

It’s him.

Him.

Big, beautiful, burly Horace—the upstairs neighbor I’ve been not-so-secretly fantasizing about for weeks.

And now?

Now he’s sitting across from me in this intimate, candlelit restaurant, ordering wine like a damn romance novel hero.

Dark red wine.

My favorite.

Does he somehow know ?

His deep, gravelly voice pulls me out of my daze.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asks, watching me carefully.

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “No.”

His brows furrow. “Do you not like it? We can leave if?—”

Before he can stand up, I reach for his hand, stopping him.

His hand. Oh. My. Gah.

It’s warm, solid, and big enough to make even me feel small.

He freezes, eyes flicking down to where our fingers are now touching, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

Oh.

Oh, this is dangerous.

“No! Nothing like that,” I rush to explain, hating the way his expression softens like he’s about to accommodate me when I don’t even need him to.

“It’s just, well, you know my sisters, and I just started our business. It, uh, took a little time to get us there, financially speaking. So going out like this? It’s been a while.”

I glance down, suddenly hyper-aware of how our hands are still connected.

Horace is quiet for a beat, then he says, softly, “You’ve worked really hard.”

And— damn it .

That— that shouldn’t mean anything .

Not from him.

Not from this practically-a-stranger sitting across from me.

But it does.

I feel something when he says it.

Like warmth. Recognition.

Like something deep in me has been waiting to hear those words.

I start to smile, but then— oh God —a horrifying realization slaps me in the face.

“Oh! But I didn’t mean I can’t pay my share of dinner or anything like that,” I blurt out, panicking that I might have accidentally implied otherwise.

Horace chuckles, squeezing my fingers before I can pull away.

Then— before I can process it —he lifts my hand to his lips and presses the briefest, softest kiss against my knuckles.

My entire body short-circuits.

“Carina,” he murmurs, his deep voice rolling over my skin like a warm caress, “you are an absolute delight. And I never imagined for a second that’s what you meant. But if you’d allow it…”

He leans in, grinning slightly, like he knows he’s about to ruin me.

“I’d love for tonight to be my treat.”

I manage to whisper, “We’ll see,” before I finally pull my hand away.

Barely.

And only because— thankfully —the first round of servers arrives, carrying skewers of sizzling meats.

Including— oh my God —bacon-wrapped chicken thighs, and juicy, tender picanha .

A tri-tip sirloin cap, grilled to perfection, its thick fat layer crisped with sea salt.

But truthfully?

I don’t even notice the food.

Because Horace and I?

We’re too wrapped up in each other.

We talk. About everything. About nothing.

He’s so easy to talk to— which is ridiculous, because I barely know him .

But here I am, telling him things I never tell anyone.

Like how I love watching rugby matches.

How it’s my dream to see the All Blacks perform a haka before a big game.

And Horace?

He tells me how he got into coding as a kid.

“I probably would’ve been diagnosed with ADHD if Dad had sent me to a psychiatrist,” he says, shrugging. “But he was an engineer. So instead, he sat me down in front of my first computer—which was in pieces—gave me a manual and challenged me to fix it.”

I blink, impressed despite myself.

“And?”

Horace grins. “After that, I started messing around with programming. And, well, now here we are.”

I shake my head, grinning back at him. “You are something else, Horace.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean it.”

And I do.

Halfway through the meal, I sigh happily, leaning back in my chair.

“Everything is delicious,” I say, finally acknowledging the food.

Horace watches me, his eyes darkening slightly, before he says, low and warm, “I’m glad you like it.”

Then, with a teasing smirk, he adds, “It’s refreshing to see a woman actually enjoying her food.”

The words hit me like a truck, slamming me back into old memories.

Edgar’s voice.

Edgar’s insults.

The way he’d always criticize me, telling me how much I ate, commenting on my weight, making me feel self-conscious about something that should’ve been so simple.

Suddenly, my throat tightens, my stomach churning.

I duck my head, embarrassed, trying to shove the memories away. They don’t belong here.

Not inside my brain.

Not now. Not ever.

I close my eyes for a brief moment and will the past to release its stranglehold on me. Usually, I can do that with no problem, and no one is the wiser.

But Horace?

He notices immediately.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he moves closer, the heat of his body suddenly there, anchoring me.

His fingers are on my chin, tilting my face toward him, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“I can feel your thoughts, Carina,” he murmurs, voice serious, searching. “And they’re heavy.”

His brows furrow, his expression pained.

“I know it’s my fault, and I don’t know what I said wrong, but if you tell me,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly.

His thumb brushes my jaw in the softest touch imaginable before he adds, “I’ll fix it.”

I swallow, shaking my head. “No. It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is gentle but firm.

“Talk to me, Sweetheart.”

And for some reason, I want to.

So I do.

I clear my throat and shrug, trying to sound casual.

“It’s just, well, my ex used to comment on how much I ate. All the time.” I exhale sharply, looking away. “He had a lot to say about my weight.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy silence.

Then a deep, guttural, animalistic growl vibrates from Horace’s chest.

I should be startled.

I should be concerned.

But instead?

My entire body reacts in a very different way.

I know if I went to the ladies’ room right now, yeah, my panties would be totally soaked.

Horace’s jaw tightens, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark and dangerous.

“What’s his name?” he asks, voice deadly calm.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He huffs a breath, shaking his head. “We’ll agree to disagree.”

He leans in, eyes locked on mine, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper:

“But let’s set the record straight, Carina.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m sorry, Horace, for bringing my baggage into this and ruining dinner?—”

“Hey, you didn’t ruin anything. You couldn’t if you tried. Not with me.”

He grips the back of my chair, caging me in.

“Now, I’m telling you up front, I’m not a smooth talker, but Carina, believe me when I say you are a fucking knockout.”

His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate.

“There is not one thing wrong with your body. Not. One. Damn. Thing. You’re so hot, Sweetheart. So damn pretty.”

He smirks and shakes his head like looking at me is doing things to him and I feel my entire body clench at his words.

“And if anyone has a problem with that?”

His voice drops even lower.

“They can talk to me— if they have the balls.”

A loud ha escapes my lips, and heat floods my cheeks— and my panties .

Oh, I am in so much trouble.

His finger on my chin turns into his entire hand. He touches my face, his eyes darken and then, he’s cupping my neck and dragging me close to him.

“I didn’t plan for our first kiss to be in front of an audience,” he whispers, his nose nuzzling mine.

I have no response. I can hardly breathe, I am so turned on.

Horace is so close now, and he really is going to kiss me if the intent glittering in his dark orbs means anything.

“Come here,” he growls and then his lips claim mine—and I am a goner.

Swoon. Mega swoon.