Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
As I pull up outside The Roaring Crowd, I give myself a little pep talk and park near the front of the lot. I step in the front door and give my name to the hostess. “Follow me.” She smiles and leads me to a booth in the back of the packed restaurant. Marcus stands when I approach.
I wait for something—anything—to happen but I don’t feel a zing or even a little sizzle. The handsome doctor does nothing for me. For a second, I feel a twinge of guilt for wanting to be anywhere else but here.
"Mia? I'm Marcus. It's great to finally meet you," he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm and warm. It’s a nice hand. A professional hand but it doesn't make my pulse jump. Dammit.
"Nice to meet you, Marcus. Katie speaks very highly of you," I say, sliding into the booth. I try to be present. I really do. He’s perfectly lovely. He’s engaging and kind, and he listens when I talk about the chaos of the ER. But the chemistry between us is in the negative digits.
But then the front door opens, and the air in the room shifts. I don’t even have to look to know who it is. My body has developed a sort of Mick-radar over the last few months, a biological quirk that I would very much like to have surgically removed. I feel the back of my neck prickle, a sudden heat blooming under my skin that has nothing to do with the mediocre red wine Marcus just ordered.
I glance toward the entrance, and there he is. Mick McLinden. He’s not wearing a tuxedo or a hockey jersey tonight, just a dark sweater that clings to his broad shoulders and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. He looks rugged, weathered, and entirely too freaking handsome. Beside him is a tall guy who looks like a giant shadow standing next to Mick’s coiled energy.
Mick doesn't see me at first. He’s laughing at something the other guy said, that mischievous grin of his flashing in the dim light. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to lean in, to be part of the joke. I feel a sharp, familiar tug in my chest, a physical ache that I’ve been trying to ignore for months.
"So, Mia, Katie mentioned you’re a big fan of hockey." Marcus asks, pulling my attention back to the table. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the door like a lost puppy.
"I guess I am. My best friend is married to the Knight’s goalie," I manage, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to Mick.
The two men grab a couple of stools at the bar. Mick scans the room and I can see his entire body freeze when his gaze lands on me. In that second, the rest of the bar vanishes. The noise, the music, the clinking of glasses all fades into a dull hum. There’s a look on his face I haven't seen before, something raw and jagged that strips away his usual composure.
His eyes flash to Marcus, then back to me. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He doesn't nod. He doesn't smile. He just stares, his intensity vibrating across the space between us like a live wire. I can't breathe. I can't think. I’ve been trained to stay calm under pressure, but looking at Mick right now feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind screaming in my ears.
"Mia? Is everything okay?" Marcus reaches across the table, his hand hovering near mine. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"I’m fine," I lie, my heart hammering against my ribs. "My five-day stretch at work is catching up with me. What were you saying about the hockey season?"
I spend the rest of dinner in a state of hyperawareness. Every time Mick moves at the bar, I feel it in my marrow. Every time he shifts his weight, I notice the way his sweater pulls across his chest. I’m conducting a thorough visual inventory of a man I promised to stay away from, while a perfectly nice doctor tries to tell me about his spoiled Doberman.
It’s agonizing. And I’m in denial. I tell myself it’s just the proximity, the shared history of our friend group. I tell myself that Mick is a complication I don’t need. But then I catch him looking at me again. And it’s not the polite look of a friend, but the hungry, possessive stare of a man who wants to eat me for dinner. It makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
By the time Marcus walks me to my car, I feel like I’ve run a marathon—naked through a hurricane. The cool night air hits my face, and I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for two hours. Marcus is still talking, something about a second date and a jazz club, and I realize I can’t do this to him. He’s a good person, and he deserves someone who isn’t fighting feelings for another man.