A #1 New York Times bestselling, #1 Wall Street Journal
bestselling, and #1 Audible bestselling author, Lauren Blakely is known for her contemporary romance style that’s sexy, feel-good and witty. Lauren likes dogs, cake and show tunes and she is the vegetarian at your dinner party.
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TRIGGER WARNINGS: - parental abandonment - negative treatment/ableism related to hearing loss - explicit sexual themes, including rough sex
For content warnings for this title, go to my site or email me laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com.
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TRIGGER WARNINGS: - parental abandonment - negative treatment/ableism related to hearing loss - explicit sexual themes, including rough sex
TRIGGER WARNINGS: - parental abandonment - negative treatment/ableism related to hearing loss - explicit sexual themes, including rough sex
Miles
I didn’t expect to meet my future wife today.
I had other plans. But as she heads toward me in the coffee shop’s doorway, I know that’s who she is.
Maybe the ink on her arms does it—the stenciled flowers cascading down them—or possibly the mesmerizing sea-blue shade of her eyes. But honestly? It’s probably the cute-as-all-get-out smirk she sends my way.
I’d smirk at me, too, considering the spangled and sequined mannequin I’m lugging down Fillmore Street. The full-size feathered headdress is wider than the door, and the espresso cup glued into the dummy’s stiff fingers seems a little weird. No way is my future wife going to realize I’m her future husband with this level of awkward.
But I’m not the kind of guy to let a six-foot-tall faux showgirl get in the way of Fate.
The inked beauty holds open the door to the shop, and I step up to prove that chivalry isn’t dead.
“I’ve got this.” I manage to grab the door with my free hand, opening it wider so she can exit first. Inside the café, Birdie—AKA Grandma—has caught sight of the byplay and watches, eagle-eyed, from behind the counter.
The brunette with the flower tattoos sweeps her gaze over my cargo. “I hope your date appreciates what a gentleman you are,” she teases as she slips past to the street.
“Actually,” I lean in and stage-whisper, “she doesn’t have much to say.” I glance at the mannequin Birdie asked me to bring to her. Well, insisted, really. Be a dear and grab Dolly from the foyer, will you? I need a greeter for the shop.
“Occupational hazard, maybe,” the woman deadpans. “She’s trained to keep smiling no matter what.”
“She does have a hell of a poker face,” I agree, furrowing my brow at Dolly, then meeting the brunette’s eyes again. “I can’t say I know her opinions on anything, really.”
“But maybe that’s what you want in a date?”
“Nope. A good date needs opinions.”
“Oh? Are you a fan of opinions?” She sounds doubtful as she adjusts the sweater she carries. It’s September in San Francisco, which means you never know if it’ll be warm or breezy—or both.
“Love them,” I say definitively, matching her raised brow. “The more the merrier.”
“Noted.” Her tone is playful, the kind of playful that says keep talking.
“In fact, here’s one for you,” I say, leaning in just slightly as I lay the groundwork for asking her out. “The espresso here is excellent.”
“You’re gallant, and you give free hot beverage advice too? Is it my lucky day or what?”
“It’s mine. That is if you want to share some of your opinions with me.”
She takes a beat, likely assessing me with those curious eyes. Then she nods toward the neon menu behind the counter and gives a sly smile. “Here’s one. Coffee drinks are vile.”
“That’s a bold statement to make in a coffee bar.”
She rolls her beautiful blue eyes. “A ‘bold’ statement? Really?”
I grin, delighted that the future Mrs. Falcon has the quick wits and sense of humor to catch that. “What? You don’t like coffee or coffee puns?”
“I like good puns.” Her lips twitch in a sly, bewitching smile.
With my free hand, I clutch my chest melodramatically. “You wound me.”
“I’m made of pure marshmallow fluff when it comes to helping out my grandmother.”
Her brow arches in a playful challenge. “Did you really just drop that helping out a grandma bit to let me know you’re the kind of guy who helps out his grandmother?”
Taking my arm from Dolly’s shoulder I gesture to the inside of the café—a perfect place for a date. It’s preseason but there’s no hockey practice tomorrow, so why not lock in the chance right now? “Maybe I did. I’d be happy to explain more over a not-coffee beverage of your choice.”
She taps her to-go cup with polished black nails. “I’m a green tea girl.”
“This is great. You think coffee is vile and prefer to drink something that smells like a just-mown lawn. Look at all the opinions we have.”
“So many more to learn, I’m sure,” she says and we’re this close to a date, but then she dips her face and checks her phone screen.
It’s in her hand, and from the looks of it, someone’s calling, but I didn’t hear it ring.
Odd. I’d think it was a save me tactic, but her phone flashes with the word Dad.
She raises her face, her smile fading, and the playful atmosphere shifts. Before she answers though, she looks my way once more. “I hope you get to enjoy your next notcoffee date,” she says. Then, with maybe some reluctance in her expression, she turns away and answers her phone in a warm voice, “Hi, Dad.”
She walks up the street. Away from me.
I stand there for a second, weighing what just happened. Did she actually turn me down or did she leave the door open? I’d like to think that was a breadcrumb—not-coffee date—but she could just be phenomenally smooth. I’m not sure. But then, I remind myself this wasn’t going to be as easy as asking her out right here, right now. Nothing good comes easily. I watch her go, admiring her attitude, her sass, her banter, and, well, let’s be blunt—her ass.
But what gets me most is when she reaches the corner. It’s almost imperceptible—just a quick glance over her shoulder—but I see it. She steals a final glance at me.
Yes. Fuck yes.
It was a breadcrumb, and I will take it. Follow it. And devise a plan.
I pump a mental fist, then haul Dolly inside High Kick Coffee, past chattering customers camped out at tables and a handful of people waiting to place their orders. Birdie has plenty of employees here to tend to them, but
she opened a coffee shop because she likes people as much as she likes bling. In typical Birdie fashion, everything in High Kick Coffee sparkles, from the countertops to the mirrors on the walls to the clock with a woman’s leg kicking back and forth to keep time.
I prop Dolly out of the way behind the counter as my grandmother starts an espresso for me. “Tell me the brunette with the flower tattoos is a regular,” I say, thoughts still centered on the woman who’s gotten away for now.
“Why? Are you in love already?” Birdie teases with a knowing grin.
“More like insta-infatuation,” I admit, leaning on the counter. “But sure, call it love.”
Birdie’s smile widens. “The woman with the flower tattoos is a photographer. We’re working together soon.” She gestures to her old showgirl photos hanging behind the counter—pictures of her kicking her leg high while wearing spangled bikinis and feathered headdresses. “Time to update the pics, don’t you think?”
I try to imagine Grandma dusting off her sequins and feathers to recreate her glory days on the Vegas stage. Is she serious about the photo shoot? She did insist I drag Dolly all the way from her home to her coffee shop after this morning’s practice. When my grandmother has a vision, I wouldn’t put anything past her.
“New photos sound great.” I lean my elbows on the counter in an oh-so-casual way. “Especially if you let me know when you’re doing them.”
“We haven’t picked a date yet.”
“But you will,” I predict.
“I will,” she says with a sly smile. “Eager much?”
I shrug. “I know what I like. What’s her name?”
“Leighton,” Birdie says. “She comes in about once a week.”
“Leighton,” I echo, enjoying the sound of it. “Perfect. I’d hate to miss her, so I guess I’ll be stopping by every day till I ask her out.”
Birdie laughs, shaking her head. “You were always my most determined grandchild. Now, be a dear and put Dolly by the door. She has a job to do.”
“Right.” I carry the mannequin to the front where she can welcome customers to High Kick Coffee—where the caffeine comes with an extra kick.
Before I duck back into the shop, I sneak one last look up the street.
You’ll be back, Leighton, and so will I.
I return to the counter as Birdie steps around the counter to the stool I always sit in.
“How was practice?” she asks, eyeing me over the steaming espresso she slides my way.
“Great,” I say, pride surging through me. “Playing better than ever.”
“You’ve worked so hard. I’m not surprised,” Birdie says.
“I think it’s more that I have the best coach.” I owe Coach everything. I’m still grateful for the chance he gave me when my career was circling the drain a couple years ago. My last team let me go, and for a while there, I was sure my hockey days were done.
Now, everything’s looking up—and has been for my last couple of seasons with the Sea Dogs.
Especially with my future wife coming back next week.
So I can buy her a cup of tea and hear more of her opinions.
Leighton
Does High Kick Coffee grow hot guys? There are at least six seriously attractive men in this bustling coffee shop, with its retro vibe and mid-century sophisticated playlist of Cole Porter tunes and Ella Fitzgerald jazz standards. Something my dad would listen to when he’s alone in his office. He has such Dad taste.
And let’s not forget that gorgeous guy with the opinions and the showgirl mannequin. His heated eyes and cocky smile have been living rent-free in my head for three days.
Okay, where is the guy I’m meeting? None of the cuties here match the photo of the model I hired to pose with my new client, Katrina, this afternoon. His name is Crash and he fit the bill for the client—young, sexy, and confident—a veritable stud. He even sent me a video saying, “I’ll make Katrina feel like a queen.” Sold.
I hired him for her first boudoir shoot since she divorced her lying, cheating, conniving scumbag of a husband who banged the babysitter.
Her words.
Mine were Thank you for trusting me with your pics.
I also promised her I’d meet with the model before I photograph them together later today. Just to make sure he’s not a dick.
I whip out my phone, scrolling through Crash’s photos as I shuffle into the line to grab a tea and figure out which guy I’ll be paying today. That’s when my phone rings— directly in my ears of course.
Veritable Stud flashes on the screen, and I smile, relieved Crash is calling. I swipe to answer, then peer around to see which of these guys is on his phone.
Not a one.
With a foreboding feeling, I say, “Hey, Crash. Are you almost here?”
“Yeah, about that…” His apologetic tone is not a good sign. “I totally messed up the days. My bad.”
No kidding, it’s your bad. But this is the other reason I wanted to meet him early.
“It’s okay,” I say. It’s not, but I can make this work. “When do you think you’ll be here?”
There’s a mix of apology and excitement in his tone. “Yeah, I’m in line for The Undead Infected Brainmeat Part Six, and if I leave, I’ll lose my place.”
Classic. Men are such clown cars of excuses. You never know which excuse is coming, but they never fail to surprise you with a new one popping up.
“But this is the date you agreed to,” I point out diplomatically, clinging to faint hope. “We were depending on you.”
Katrina deserves to feel beautiful today, dammit.
I’ve been working my butt off building my photography business—from boudoir to fashion and even to sports—since I graduated from college last year. I just returned to San Francisco a few months ago, and this shoot is a big chance for me to build my own boudoir business. I pride myself on making my clients feel like the beautiful, empowered goddesses they are.
“Where are you in line?” I ask. “I could push the shoot to later today.”
“Yeah, about that…” But he doesn’t mean yeah. He means nah. “After I get it, I’m gonna play it.”
Crash is a trainwreck. “Fine,” I say before hanging up. “Have fun with that.”
I don’t have time for I can’t believe this is happening. I need a backup plan.
I open my contacts list for online agencies that might deliver in a hurry, then realize I’ve reached the counter. There, I’m greeted by none other than Birdie LaShay, the owner of High Kick Coffee, rocking a pink feather boa like she’s still on stage.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? Did someone disappoint you?”
“Is it that obvious?” I sigh.
She nods. “You have that look. The ‘he’s not showing up’ look.” She lowers her voice. “App guy? Those apps are trouble.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I only wish it were a date letting me down.”
She arches a brow, humming. “So, you’re single?”
I nod. “Very, very single.”
Her lips twitch into a smile before she schools her expression. “Is it your father? Sometimes they let you down too.”
But my dad wouldn’t. “It’s work. Crash ditched me for virtual zombies.” I glance at the café clock. “I have a boudoir shoot and an hour and a half to find a replacement hunk.”
Her smile brightens. “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare because I’ve already solved your problem. Just like that.” She snaps her fingers and tosses her boa over her shoulder with dramatic flair.
“Do you have a hot barista stashed behind the counter?” I ask.
She leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “Even better. My grandson—handsome as they come—has a rest day today.”
“A rest day from what?”
Her eyes dart sideways for a second, and she talks faster. “Cooking. It’s very intense. Have you seen that show The Cub? The one about the chef in Seattle? He looks like that. Inked too.”
Okay, okay. I’m officially interested. I’ve only gotten to know Birdie a little over the last few weeks, and I had no idea what her grandson did. But a chef could work for my photographic needs. A good chef is used to the spotlight. A good chef has posed for a few pics. A good chef also knows how to focus his attention elsewhere—on the food. “Is he a good chef?”
“Oh, yes. And he looks just like the guy from that show,” she adds with a proud grin. “But with darker hair. Dark eyes. Will that work for your photos?”
Yes, chef. I know the popular show she means. “If he’s even close, I’ll be in your debt.”
Her grin widens. “Trust me, honey. I know exactly what I’m doing here.”
As she whips out her phone, something tugs at my brain. A connection. I turn my gaze to the doorway, where the fabulously dressed mannequin welcomes customers. The coffee-loving guy from the other day did say he was helping his grandmother, but that doesn’t mean he’s the same guy. Does it?
But I dismiss the thought and the little burst of excitement that comes with it too, focusing instead on Birdie. She’s a lifesaver and her fingers fly faster than a teenager’s across the screen before she sets it down. “I texted him. Now, give me your digits,” she says, trying to sound trendy, and it’s adorable.
I comply, happily handing over my number. She beckons me to hand over the to-go cup I always carry. “Now, let me get you your green tea, sweetie pie. You’re going to need your energy for this photo shoot. I know it’s going to be amazing.”
Quickly, she pours me a tea.
I pay and thank her, but before I can head back out onto Fillmore Street, she says, “Oh, and Leighton?”
“Yes?”
She beckons me closer and whispers, “Best not to ask about work. He’s a little shy about that.”
I smile. “That’s sweet.”
“Yes, isn’t it? He’s so talented and so humble.”
“Winning combo,” I say.
She simply smiles, looking pleased to have solved my dilemma.
Leaving the café, I text Katrina with an update. As I turn toward the studio space I rent when I can, I glimpse a familiar looking guy on the other side of the street. Except
for his glasses, he does remind me of the man with the mannequin the other day. First dates can be complicated and romance even more so, but I’ve been hoping I’d run into him again.
Just not right now.
When I have no time to entertain so much as the idea of a good-looking man.
Not even the ridiculously handsome man I might have dreamed about since I met him.
I need to prep the studio. Take the pictures for my client. Do an amazing job.
And I really need Birdie’s grandson to be my hero today, whether he’s the guy from the other day or not.
We’re going to have words, Birdie and me.
I stride into High Kick after just missing Leighton. I’d spotted her hustling up the block in the opposite direction, but I didn’t stop her or call out because, one, that’s creepy. And two, that’s really fucking creepy.
But Birdie is in big trouble with me. I march to the counter and park my hands on it.
“Why didn’t you text me that my wife was here?” I ask, narrowing my eyes in displeasure. “I planned to be here sooner, but after practice, Coach called us into the video room to review some things.”
Birdie tugs on her pink feather boa like it’s the source of her many grandmotherly superpowers. “Do you think I don’t have anything better to do than text you?” she asks breezily.
“Name a better use of your time than giving me the chance to ask her out.” I sigh and shake my head in disap-
pointment. But really, I’m shocked. Birdie has been dying to set me up since Joanne and I split a few years ago. The world assumed our relationship petered out when I moved to San Francisco to join the Sea Dogs. In reality, she’d had enough of an injured boyfriend who’d spent the better part of a year in a low-level funk. And, I get that. I had enough of myself too.
But that’s the past, as Birdie likes to remind me. So why would my grandmother miss a golden romance opportunity?
“Well…” Birdie draws out the word with a sly smile. “Leighton and I talked about her job. That was very important.”
“So, while you discussed your headshots and whatnot, you didn’t once think, ‘My favorite grandchild in the universe would jump at this opportunity to meet her properly’?”
She straightens, chin up as if offended. “I was helping her with an emergency. She was stood up for a photo shoot.”
I bristle, my mood shifting. Lip curled, I hiss, “Who would do that to her?”
Birdie looks devilishly delighted. “I knew you’d feel that way. That’s why I told her you’d pose for her.”
I blink, speechless, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation—like Birdie wants to join some secret underground grandma matchmaking society and this is part of her initiation.
Fine by me. But I don’t want to seem too eager, so I say, “Just to clarify—you volunteered me as tribute…for a photo shoot?”
She takes off her feather boa and wraps it around my neck, holding the ends like a glittery lasso. “You heard me,
Miles Falcon. If I rely on fate to put you both here at the same time, you’ll never get the chance to ask her out. So I made things happen.”
“Forgive me for ever doubting you,” I say.
“You’re forgiven,” she says haughtily, releasing her grip on the feathered noose.
“Good,” I lean in like we’re going for a pre-game briefing on the opposing team, “Give me the details. Does she know who I am?”
“I only said you’re my grandson.” Her brown eyes shift away from mine. “But take some grandmotherly advice. Don’t talk about hockey.”
I frown. “Why would I? The photo shoot isn’t on the ice, is it?”
“Nothing like that.” She puts her hands on her hips as if I’m a kid again. “My point is that women don’t want to hear a man blather on and on about his job. Talk about other things. Hobbies, pets, the city, the last great movie you saw, your favorite song.” Her face brightens with an idea. “You could take her geocaching. You love to do that, and solving all those treasure hunt clues is a fun way to get to know each other.”
None of this is bad advice, but I’m baffled about why she thinks I need it. Does she think I’m that hopeless in the romance department?
“Got it. But, so you know, I wasn’t planning to discuss hockey.”
“Of course you weren’t, dear.” She smiles and pats my arm. “I just have to look out for you, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s all part of your work in The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society.”
“That’s brilliant! If no such group exists, I’m going to start one.”
“No one would be better.” I steer the convo back to more relevant intel. “So, does she know I’m the guy who ran into her outside the shop the other day? The one with the mannequin and the opinions?” Fuck it, those details don’t matter. I wave them away. “I’ll take care of all that. Where do I need to go? And when is it? Please say ‘today,’ because we’re leaving tomorrow for away games.”
Birdie tuts at my concerns. “Oh, sweetheart. You speak as if I don’t know your schedule by heart. The appointment is in about an hour.” She glances pointedly at the ticking clock then back at me.
Tick-tock, get moving. She doesn’t need to tell me twice.
If I leave for the final pre-season road trip without at least getting something started with Leighton, I know in my gut that I’ll regret it.
“I’m there.” I wheel around to take off, but then spin back. “Where is ‘there,’ exactly? And what kind of photo shoot?” I’m not going to miss this opportunity, but I also don’t want to show up unprepared.
Mischief flicks across Birdie’s eyes. “The kind where all you have to do is take off your pants.”
I freeze, not sure I heard that right. Yes, I’m shocked— shocked at how perfect that sounds. I head to the door, stop, and then remove the feathered boa.
“You don’t like the accessory?” Birdie asks innocently as I return to the counter.
“Love it.” I place it in her hand with a grin. “But I’ll just have to take it off anyway, right?”
“You were always my smart one.”
And a smart guy doesn’t miss chances.
Walking down the Hayes Valley street, I check my reflection in the window of a record shop up the block from Leighton’s studio. Dark button-down, sleeves rolled up. Jeans, motorcycle boots, black glasses. I can’t wear glasses on the ice, but I swapped out my contacts after practice.
I’ve got none of the telltale signs of an athlete. No hoodie, no sneakers—Birdie doesn’t want me to talk hockey? That’s easy enough. I didn’t get two bachelor’s degrees for nothing.
I drag a hand through my messy hair, which has been wild my whole life, and continue down the block. The guy in my reflection looks composed. But inside, I ping with excitement, and the focused awareness I get before I step onto the ice. When my world narrows to the game, nothing but the game, I block out everything else.
Turning at Elodie’s Chocolates, I count the street numbers, and just past Risqué Business, I spot a white door tucked between storefronts. On the list of businesses labeling the buzzer panel, I find Hush Hush Photography.
I press the button.
A few seconds later, a pretty voice asks through the speaker, “Hi! Is that Miles?”
“That’s me.”
I don’t mention I’m the guy about to ask her out on a date.
“I’m on the second floor. Come on up.”
She buzzes me in, and I bound up the narrow stairway. There are a couple of businesses on the second floor, but the red door is unmissable. A vintage sign with lovely feminine lettering reads Hush Hush.
I raise my hand to knock, and the door swings open.
Fuck me, she’s gorgeous. A black shirt slopes down her
shoulder, exposing creamy flesh I want to kiss. Long jeans dust the floor, and I bet they’d look great on the floor too. The silver bracelets jangling on her wrists draw attention to the fine black lines of the flower patterns crawling up her forearms. But my eyes keep returning to her face. Chestnut waves frame her high cheekbones while long silver teardrops dangle from her ears. Her pink lips are slick with gloss. Her eyes are big, beautiful pools of blue. They flicker in surprise, but also with something like intrigue.
She tilts her head, her long earrings dangling. Her smile takes its sweet time forming as she looks me up and down slowly, like she’s savoring a scotch, taking a bite of decadent chocolate, watching a sunrise. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“Did you bring your opinions?” she asks.
“Only if you brought yours.”
“I guess we’ll see.” She lifts her index finger, gesturing to my face. Her nails are polished in shiny black. “You didn’t have on glasses the other day.”
“You noticed.”
“I’m a photographer. It’s my job to notice things.”
“Are the glasses a problem? I can manage without them for the shoot.”
She studies me like she enjoys the question, or maybe making me wait for her answer. Finally, she gives a flirty shrug. “There might be a glare but I can edit it out. They’re too sexy to take off.”
I don’t smile nearly as broadly as I want to. “I knew I’d appreciate your opinions.”
“Well, then.” She holds the door open. “Come in and stay a while.”
“I think I will.”
I step inside and look around. Wow.
This isn’t a date, but it’s the perfect setting for one. From the bed at the center with its satiny duvet to the sapphire blue chaise longue to the ruby red chair and white, fluffy rug, the studio oozes sensual vibes.
And if there were ever a better wingman than this studio—or wingwoman—I wouldn’t believe it.
Leighton
I have the feeling that Birdie is up to something. It couldn’t be that she sent her ridiculously hot grandson to be an underwear stand-in. Not a random grandson, either, but the guy who was this close to asking me out the last time we crossed paths.
As someone who adores her own Grams, I have mad respect for this level of matchmaking puppetry.
Only I don’t have time for it right now. Katrina will be here in twenty minutes, and this shoot is too important for me to get lost in the flirting zone with this hot chef with his hot, thigh-hugging jeans, and the shirt sleeves that can’t hide the breadth of his biceps or the strength of his shoulders. The rolled cuffs reveal a leather bracelet and a tattoo of an arrow on the fair skin of his muscular forearm. He looks strong for a chef. Must be all those cast-iron skillets he lifts. Yes, this man can cook me artichokes anytime.
Stop thinking of artichokes and hot men.
I shake off thoughts of two of my favorite things and get down to brass tacks.
“Birdie told you about the shoot?” I’d bet she didn’t disclose much.
“She said you’re a boudoir photographer,” Miles says, gesturing to the studio space, with its bed and plush furniture meant to showcase sensuality and luxury. “But I can pick up the context clues too.”
I toss him a look. Hush Hush studio is run by a more seasoned photographer who is, of course, not here at the moment because I’ve booked it for the rest of the day. But he doesn’t need the details of just how new I am to the job. I’ve got a few gigs under my belt as well as my assistant work. And, really, I am a boudoir photographer, though it’s not all I shoot.
I gesture to the emerald velvet curtains, then the red satin sheets. “Did something give it away?” I ask innocently, looking at him when I talk. I find that often trains people to do the same for me, before I know them well enough to ask them to look my way. It’s a tricky balance since some men misread prolonged eye contact. But if I don’t look at him, I might miss something he says. My hearing loss is only moderate, so I can hear well enough but it’s still helpful to see someone’s facial expressions and their lips moving as they talk. Those details can fill in the gaps with softer sounds that are harder to hear.
There’s nothing soft about Miles though. Not his body, or his words as he tips his forehead toward the obvious centerpiece of the room—the ruby red velvet chair. “Hard to say. Probably just a vibe,” he says, coolly, casually, but with that undercurrent of sex in his voice.
And loss or no loss, I can hear and read his tone perfectly.
Come to think of it, there’s always been a hint of sex in his voice. And it’s dangerous—the gravel in his tone sends a charge through me. He doesn’t talk like a guy my age. Like a twenty-three-year-old dude bro who sends thirst traps of himself in gray sweatpants with pecs that move on their own. Miles talks like a man, with a little mileage on him, and the knowledge that comes with experience.
I turn away from him so I don’t get swept up in this lust. “I should finish setting up.”
“Can I help?” he asks, and he’s close enough that I can still hear him.
“I’m good, but walk with me, and I’ll give you the details.” I tell him a little about my boudoir style— empowering and focused on making her feel beautiful— as I adjust the lighting, then head to the dressing room where I’ve set up a wardrobe. Katrina’s bringing her own outfits, but I always keep options on hand—silky robes, lace, stockings, dress shirts. I have plenty of those, along with a dozen pairs of black heels in every size.
“So, here’s the plan for today,” I say as I wrap up the tour.
“I know nothing about boudoir, but I’m a fast learner. Tell me what you need me to do,” he says, his voice steady, a ballplayer ready to step up to the plate.
“Katrina isn’t doing a typical couples shoot—she’s not part of a couple anymore. Most of her shots will be solo, traditional boudoir shots, focusing on the woman, so we won’t need you the whole time. But since the whole point of the shoot is empowerment, when we bring you in, we want you to focus on her. Only her. Even if she’s not interacting with you. Or looking at you.”
My goal is to make her an object of desire rather than to show the interplay of desire.
“Got it,” he says with a nod, like he’s recording these details. “Where do you want me?”
I take a beat to let the double meaning roll over me. “For a few, we want her sitting in this chair.” I gesture to the plush red chair that screams luxury. “And you’ll be on the bed, shirtless and in jeans. The bed is just a few feet away, and most of the time, she won’t be entirely in focus. The shot will be about…” I stop, collecting my thoughts, before I give him the specific direction, “It’ll be about your desire for her. The way you look at her. Like she’s beautiful. Like you can’t look away. Like you want her desperately. Okay?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Like I want her desperately,” he repeats.
The air crackles and it’s so clear he’s not talking about another woman.
But I stick to the plan. “You’re comfortable with that?” I ask. It’s important that he understands the type of photography I do—the consent and trust involved. It’s not pornographic; no one will be having sex, of course. But he needs to be comfortable with the heightened sexuality in the shoot.
“One hundred percent,” he says. “What else do you need?”
For you to stop turning me on with the way you listen.
“I want some shots where…” I pause then explain, “you’re getting up, like you’re prowling toward her. Same idea. You need to have her.”
His dark brown eyes lock onto mine, deep and mesmerizing, flecked with gold at the edges. There’s a line between his thick eyebrows. I bet he’s ten years older than
I am. I wish I didn’t find it so sexy, the age difference. But I do, especially his intensity now here in the studio, even though it’s unnerving too. I know I can use it in the photos if he can channel it, and that’s what matters. “And I want to feel that in the photos. Can you do that?” My voice sounds breathy as I ask it. Too breathy.
A slow smile shifts the corners of his lips. “I think I can, Leighton,” he says, low and raspy, but still deliciously deep. “Should I just think about something I really want?”
The fucker. He knows what he’s doing to me. His gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s something about the way he looks at me from behind those glasses that seems like he knows things a man should know. I feel like my panties are slipping off from the way he’s looking at me.
“Yes,” I manage to say, trying to hide the way I feel since I don’t know what to expect from him.
Maybe that’s why I walked away from him the other day. I wasn’t sure if he meant it when he asked me out on a date. First dates are their own kind of hell. I don’t love to spend an hour with a stranger—let alone share with him the things I don’t love sharing. That’s why I don’t jump at the chance to have tea with strangers, even ones as tempting as Miles. Getting to know someone takes trust. I trust my family, my sister, and my friends. Above all, I trust myself. But anyone else? Not so much.
I snap back to the present and continue. “The goal with this shoot is for Katrina to feel like she’s the star of the show, and you’re here to shine a light on her.”
“I think I can do that,” Miles says, his voice as steady as ever. “I can definitely get the hang of that.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if the sparks between us were real the other day. But they’re so real now, shimmying down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly.
This is bad. I can’t start a boudoir session feeling turned on. I can’t be thinking about a model while I’m shooting Katrina. I push the lust away, praying he can’t sense it. But the fact that he’s so focused on me—it’s unraveling me. And I can’t afford to unravel.
I tug at my neckline, adjusting it, looking for something tactile so I can stay rooted in the moment. “I hope you wore your best underwear. If not, I’ve got black boxer briefs in all sizes,” I say, as clinical as possible. Yet discussing what he’ll wear—when he soon takes off other clothes—feels anything but professional. “I’ll go grab them,” I add quickly, turning to the wardrobe, hoping he didn’t notice the way my skin heated just being near him.
“Leighton,” he calls out.
I spin around. “Yes?” My voice sounds squeaky.
“I already wear black boxer briefs. I can show them to you if you want,” he says with a tease on his mouth. His lush, sexy, flirty mouth that belongs to a man, not a boy.
Never have I wanted a man to strip so badly. That’s why I say, “You know what? I’m just going to trust you on that.”
“Fair enough. And I’ll trust you to help me focus on the client. I can tell this is important to you,” he says, his tone serious. All the flirting has been stripped away now. “I want it to go well.”
Holy shit. He’s not flirting—he actually cares about my job.
And that only makes me like him more. “Thank you. That means a lot to me—that opinion.”
“Good,” he says with a smile that’s too disarming.
I turn around for real, vowing to take several deep breaths and focus entirely on the client who’s about to arrive. I steady my breathing as I check my Nikon’s
settings. I have the lens perfectly adjusted, when my phone buzzes with an incoming text and I scan it.
Dad: Still on for breakfast tomorrow at the usual?
I told Birdie he’d never disappoint me. He’s the most dependable person I know. Just like how he’s never missed a game coaching the Sea Dogs in five years, he’d never miss a breakfast with his daughter.
I write back that I can’t wait, then tuck my phone away to focus on the guy who’s with me. Briefly, I imagine introducing Miles to my dad at some point. After a few dates.
And…that’s a risky thought. One best ignored for now. Good thing my phone rings— in my ears—shifting my focus. It’s probably Katrina looking for parking. That’s a state of life in San Francisco.
I hit answer. “Hey, Katrina, are you here? The lot can be hard to find, but I can tell you where it is.”
“I’m so sorry. My youngest is sick. The school just called, and I need to go pick him up. His dad’s out of town, and my mom’s at work. I know I paid a nonrefundable retainer, but I just can’t make it today.”
My shoulders sag. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m so sorry he’s sick. Of course we can reschedule.”
She promises to get back to me soon, and when I hang up, I turn to find Miles sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at me expectantly. “She’s not coming?”
“Did you hear that? Our conversation?” I ask, surprised. The phone connects with my hearing aids, so any noise or sound from my phone goes directly into my ears.
He shakes his head. “No, but I could see the disappointment in your eyes.”
Oh. He’s good with facial expressions too. That’s… interesting. Unusual too. He pauses, his gaze thoughtful. “You really wanted this to happen today, didn’t you? Not just for her—for yourself too?”
I swallow. He’s been flirty, direct, and clever, but this...this understanding side of him? The way he reads me? It’s all new to me. And because it is, I choose honesty. “I was really looking forward to it,” I admit. “I had some great ideas. Some new poses I wanted to capture.”
The studio goes quiet. I can almost see the gears turning in his mind. Then he stands, strides over to me, and offers me a hand. “Use me. Show me what you wanted to do.” He steps even closer—dangerously so. “Practice with me.”
Leighton
I have steady hands. No one wants a photographer with shaky fingers, so I have half a mind to reprimand myself as I set the Nikon on the tripod carefully, fighting against my own nerves.
Am I really doing this? Filling in for my client with the sick kid? And doing it with the guy who’s standing in for a zombie hunter—Birdie’s grandson, no less?
I could change my mind. I could say, you know what? There’s no need for this, but I appreciate the offer. Except, one glance around the studio I share with other boudoir photographers—the studio I booked and paid for today— and I’m not sure I can find a reasonable excuse to back out.
It’s not against a photographer’s code of conduct. I’m not stealing time from someone else.
The only issue is me, and the attraction I feel for this man. I don’t want it to get in the way of my judgment.
So yeah, I can do this but with some rules. I need control over this shoot, over myself. It’s not that I don’t trust him—I don’t trust how easily he could make me drop my guard. I’ve spent too long building my walls to let them crumble in one afternoon.
“Why don’t we try with clothes on?” I say, because that feels a little safer.
He nods easily. “Whatever you want.”
It feels like he means that—on a deep and real level. Like this man wants to give me my wishes and dreams.
But really, it’s best I focus those on photography so I don’t get carried away.
I mentally cycle through the poses I had planned for Katrina. I know exactly which ones I want to start with. I’ve been dying to try these out.
First, I turn on a playlist from my phone, letting it pipe into a portable speaker. I don’t mind the quiet, but music helps nearly everyone relax during a shoot, mostly so they aren’t simply hearing the echo of their own thoughts. Plus, I’m used to the faint background tunes as I work. Once a soft, sultry tune drifts around the studio, I point to the bed, nerves buzzing through me even as I take control.
“Lie down. Unbutton your shirt.” That’s exactly what I’d say to him if Katrina were here posing too. But she’s not here, so the command feels entirely personal.
Like it’s me giving it to the man I flirted with at the coffee shop, rather than the photographer to the model.
I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
Or just…reality today.
I expect him to strip as he walks over to the bed a few feet away, but instead, he watches me, tilting his head to the side, then slowly undoes his buttons, one by one, until his shirt falls open, revealing strong pecs that taper into
stronger abs. A smattering of dark chest hair draws my eyes, especially as it trails down his abs and disappears into his jeans.
I’ve photographed countless bodies before. I know how to admire form without letting it get to me. But this feels different—it feels personal. His casual confidence makes me want to drop my defenses, and that scares me. It’s not just his body—it’s the way he carries himself. It’s like he’s daring me to trust him.
Pretty sure he’s also daring me to look at him, so I indulge in the offered view. I’m tempted to comment on his six-pack—heck, it’s even an eight-pack. To say, “Who knew carting a few dozen heads of cabbage could shape abs like that?”
But Birdie said not to mention what he does for a living. So I don’t. He’s probably an Internet chef or something. I don’t even ask his last name.
All I know is Miles The Hot Chef is a man unfazed by partial nudity. A man who knows what he brings to the table. “Will this do?” he asks with confidence and certainty. I’m not used to men who speak like this. The guys I dated in college and since I graduated last year always seem like they’re either trying too hard or running away when they learn I’m, well, complicated.
He seems so comfortable, as if he’s done this a hundred times. But there’s something in the way his eyes follow me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s offering himself up but also watching me closely to see if I’ll accept.
“That’ll do,” I say, trying to stay composed even as heat races through me.
He undoes his boots and takes off his socks, then his watch too, setting it down on a table. He heads to the bed
and there, he stretches out on it, not needing instructions. It’s like he knows exactly how I want him to look. He parks his hands behind his head, stretches out his long legs. He’s relaxed but poised. “You said I should look like I want her, right?”
I swallow roughly, my mouth suddenly dry. “Yes. Please. That would be great.”
“Good, because I should really look that way right now,” he says, in a faint voice, but still I can make it out.
My heart is beating so fast, I swear he can hear it.
I really need to concentrate on the task at hand, not on the way he makes me feel. The way he watches me too. While I know guys my age can and do wear glasses, there’s something about them that makes a man seem…more mature. Like, he’s settled into who he is. Or maybe that’s how Miles comes across.
Tearing my gaze away from him, I ensure the composition is just how I want it, with both of us in the frame even though we won’t be touching. I adjust the focus so the camera will follow him if he moves, then grab the tiny remote I can use to trigger the shutter. With that in my hand and everything ready, I move to the plush red chair and sit down, drawing a deep, steadying breath.
“Just watch me,” I tell him, but that feels redundant since he’s done nothing else since he started taking his clothes off.
“Easy enough,” he says.
I lean back, letting my hair fall down my spine, pushing my chest up, my legs stretched out in front of me —a classic pose that any good dancer knows how to use. The kind that comes in quite handy in boudoir.
But this pose doesn’t feel like it has before when I’ve snapped self-portraits. Nor does it feel like it has the times
when I’ve shot couples where he’s mere inches from her, about to touch her. The small space between us makes me feel watched in a whole new way. I feel admired. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Miles is staring like he can’t look away. I trigger the shutter, and then there’s a click, then the flash.
I slide my hand into my hair on the right side—the side he can’t see right now.
Another press. Another click. I move my hand down my chest.
Then a few more clicks.
I break the pose and glance over at him, and he speaks first. “Did that work for you?”
Not How’d I do?
His concern is only me. On giving me what I want. Or really, what I need.
Normally, I’d check the back of the camera myself, but nothing about this shoot is normal anymore, least of all the charge in the air, the ions crackling between us, the heat shimmering in this space. “Do you want to see?” I offer as I rise.
He’s up in no time, standing next to me as we peer at the viewfinder together. He’s close enough that I can smell him. Clean and soapy, with a hint of sandalwood or something darker—something earthy and warm. The scent wraps around me like a slow, steady pulse and it goes straight to my head, fogging up everything else.
I’d like to say I’m affected by scent as much as the next girl, but I think I’m more affected. What I’ve lost in one sense, I more than compensate for with others. My eyes rival an eagle’s. My nose is nearly as good as a dog’s. Sometimes that’s annoying. Today, it’s intoxicating and
heady as I breathe in that hint of cologne or aftershave while I scroll through the pictures.
In every picture, I’m soft, a little out of focus, but he’s not. Miles is looking only at me, like he doesn’t want to miss a single small shift I make from shot to shot, my fingers in my hair, my hand sliding down my chest.
Yes. This is exactly what I wanted to capture—the moment when desire ignites. The moment before it turns into touch. The anticipation of what’s to come.
“It’s good,” I say softly but what I really mean is you’re good.
And that’s hard to say. I’m wary of getting too personal, even though everything with him feels very, very personal.
“Yeah, I think your model’s delivering exactly what you’re looking for,” Miles says, his deep voice sending a fresh wave of heat through me. He turns, his eyes locking on mine. “What do you think? It’s like I want her, right?”
He’s so steady, so sure, and that certainty in his tone both excites me and knocks me off-kilter. He’s waiting for me to take my turn. Wanting me to keep going.
I really shouldn’t do this. I really shouldn’t flirt with him. I’m crossing a line here—my own line of trust on a first date. I don’t like to get this close. And yet…
“Yes. You look like you want her. You seem to be nailing it on the first try,” I reply, throwing the flirt right back.
His grin deepens. “Do you want me to look like I’m about to get up and prowl toward you next? Like I need to have you?”
I swallow again, the tension rising between us. He’s remembering everything I told him. And he’s taking control. “I do.”
He moves to the edge of the bed, sitting down, elbows
on his knees, hands clasped just under his chin. A strong, masculine pose. Full of energy, even though he’s not moving. “Will this work?”
God, he looks like a sinful portrait already. I’ll call it A Man on Edge.
Actually, this wasn’t on the shot list—him solo. But I want it anyway. Improvising, I grab the camera from the tripod, moving closer to him, snapping a couple of shots of him up close and personal. His face is so interesting, from the scruff lining his jaw, to the nose that’s nearly straight, but not quite, to the darkest of brown eyes that crinkle slightly at the corners behind those glasses. He’s not perfect, but those imperfections are doing it for me. I inch even closer, needing to capture him from every angle, wanting to record everything he’s giving right now.
I stop. “Just feeling inspired,” I say, explaining myself. “Want to show them to me?”
It’s dripping with invitation. I narrow the distance, sitting next to him on the bed. He leans in, his shoulder bumping mine as we look at the camera together. I can barely concentrate on the images on the back of the device. He’s even closer to me than last time we checked out the shots. So close that if I turn my face, he might capture my lips in a kiss.
I blink off the thought as I pull away so I can set up the camera again on the tripod.
“So, now you want me to stalk over to you?” he asks, reminding me of the pics I want to get.
The reason we’re doing this.
To test my skills. To try new things. To capture a man in motion, a man who can’t stand to be away from his woman. It’s an action shot of sorts, and there should be just enough room to capture him moving toward me.
Well, here goes. “I do, but it’ll be a little different this time,” I say.
“How?”
Am I doing this? Yes. I’m doing it. I look at those dark brown eyes, so soulful, so heated. “Sit down and find out.”
I’m going off script. I take a breath, check the settings once more on the back of the camera, then move to the chair a few feet from him. Close enough that he could stretch out an arm and touch me.
The remote in my hand feels like a timer, so I reach for the hem of my shirt, then stop thinking and just act. In one swift move, the shirt is gone, leaving me in my jeans and black lace bra. The cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his eyes.
This time, I do hear him clearly—a quiet sound, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable because it can only be one thing.
A low, reverent holy shit.
And now, I don’t feel nerves washing over me. It’s power. I’m the photographer, I’m the subject, and I’m the object of his desire.
I smile, feeling like a queen—exactly how I wanted my client to feel. How Miles is making me feel.
He stands, closing the short distance between us with each trigger of the remote and click, click, click of the camera.
We didn’t script what will come next. But he’s moving next to me now, straddling the chair, sinking down behind me, his hands sliding down my arms.
“Like this?” he murmurs.
I shudder, closing my eyes, giving in as the camera clicks. “Just like that.”
Miles
I run a hand down her arm, letting my fingers glide across her skin before setting my palm on top of hers—the hand not holding the remote. Her breath hitches—it’s the most gorgeous sound I’ve ever heard.
I slow my movements, running my left hand over hers, curling our fingers together, drawing out the moment. As she clasps my hand in return, she sighs softly, leaning her head back. Her thick, silky hair brushes against my nose. I don’t even bother pretending not to inhale it. I make a show of it, running my nose along the soft, chestnut waves.
“You smell like vanilla and brown sugar,” I murmur as I drift closer to her earlobe so I can kiss her there.
She tenses though, and I’m not sure what to make of that reaction. Maybe I’ve gone too far. Too fast. But then she turns her head back to glance at me, pulling her body away slightly. Like there’s a play I didn’t expect on the ice,
I try to read her body language. But it’s hard because there’s a quirk in her lips now, like she’s amused. “And I bet you like that—vanilla and brown sugar.”
Ah, that’s better. Her sass. I fucking love her confidence. I tighten my fingers around hers. “What gave it away?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to say,” she teases, still twisting to look at me, even as she wriggles her ass against my hard-on. And I do know how to read that.
“Some things are more obvious than others.”
“This one seems fairly obvious,” she replies, her voice a little dreamy, a little lost in the moment. But then she takes a deep breath, like she’s snapping herself out of it.
Hmm.
Maybe I’ve been missing her cues all along? “Do you want me to stop?”
She’s quiet for a beat before she says, “No.”
I pause in case she says more, but she doesn’t. I take her word at face value as I let go of her hands and slide mine up her arms, tracing the flowers inked into her skin. I watch the fine hairs rise under my touch while listening to her quiet gasps and the soft murmur of her breath. She melts into me, and I feel her relax, little by little. I want to kiss her right now. But I hold myself back, resisting the urge. I want to make her wait for it, but I also want to be dead sure she wants this.
I lift a hand to sweep her hair to the side so I can kiss the back of her neck, but the second my fingers make contact, she jerks away. “I need to…check the settings,” she says.
Oh. Okay. I’m a little lost. “Sure. Go ahead,” I say since I’m not really sure what she wants anymore.
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, then, like it costs
her something, she asks, “Can I take more pictures? I have a pose in mind.”
Best to go with the flow. I’ll chalk the earlier awkwardness up to, well, the fact that we’re half-dressed in a photo studio and we hardly know each other. Intimacy is going to be awkward sometimes. It’s best to talk it out though, and at least she’s trying. “Take as many as you want. You’re the star of the show.”
She pops up to adjust the camera. Her fingers move quickly over the settings, and after a few seconds, she comes back to me. This time though, she doesn’t sink onto my lap, with her back to my chest again. Instead, she straddles my thighs, so she’s facing me.
Well, then. That’s clear.
“This is a better pose,” she says, like she needs to explain herself, when I’m so good with it.
“Whatever you want,” I reply.
One hand is still curled around the remote trigger. With the other, she drags her shiny black nail down her chest, toward the swell of her breasts. “Kiss me here. For the camera.”
That’s all the invitation I need. I dip my head, pressing a soft kiss to her skin, instantly lost in the taste of her. Her warmth. The beat of her pulse beneath my lips. The scent of brown sugar and vanilla lingering in her hair while the camera captures the way I touch her.
I kiss my way up her chest, to her throat, flicking my tongue lightly against the hollow there. My brain shortcircuits. Everything I’ve been holding back starts to crumble. I want to grab her face and kiss her deeply, but when I reach up to cup her cheeks and haul her close, her eyes widen—just for a second.
Fear flickers across them.
Something’s wrong. “You okay?” I ask, pulling away.
“Yes, I’m great. It’s fine. It’s just—” She cuts herself off, not finishing her sentence.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” I ask again, my brow furrowing.
She shakes her head adamantly. “No. I swear. I just…” She shifts a few inches back, wincing. “I don’t usually kiss this fast.”
Oh, fuck. I don’t want her to think I’m only trying to get her naked, even though I’d very much like that. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“You didn’t,” she whispers. Then she sighs heavily, closing her eyes, like something pains her. She lets go of the grip on the remote.
I feel like a total piece of shit. Except, she’s not moving off me. She’s still straddling me. So I wait for her to go next. When she opens her eyes a few seconds later, she sets a hand on my chest, grabbing the fabric of my shirt, twisting it in her fingers. She parts her lips, breathes out heavily again, clearly at war with herself.
I have no clue what’s going on, but I do not want to make her feel uncomfortable.
“Should I leave?” I ask, trying to fix the mess I’ve made. “I should leave.”
“Don’t.”
So I don’t.
Another big breath, then she straightens her shoulders, gripping my shirt tighter. “I don’t like to talk about this so soon,” she says with a frustrated groan I didn’t expect, then she finishes in a strong voice with, “I wear hearing aids. And I don’t want you to touch my ears when you kiss me.”
I blink. I didn’t see that coming. Only because…I had
no idea. Her hair is so long, and it covers her ears, and I haven’t gotten any sense that she hasn’t heard me when I’ve spoken.
But as I roll the tape on the last few minutes, all her reactions make perfect sense—the way she tensed when I got too close to her hair, the way she moved away when I ventured near her earlobe. So many questions ping through my mind, but when I look at her eyes again, there’s a barrier in those blues.
Her guard is all the way up.
Like she thinks… Ah fuck.
She thinks I’m going to leave.
She thinks this turns me off.
She thinks I’m like some asshole who must have done that to her—left when he learned. And I immediately want to find him and kill him.
I do the next best thing. I lift my hand to run my knuckles down her cheek. “Thank you for telling me. And I have one opinion on that right now and it’s this—I’d really like to take you on a date.”
She relaxes, slowly but surely, her lips curving into a soft smile, like that’s what she needed more than a kiss. “You do?” She sounds enchanted. Maybe amazed.
I don’t waste a single second. “I really do.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “What are you doing right now?”
Her smile deepens. My chest tightens with excitement as she says, “Going on a date with you.”
I slide my hand down her chest once more, my fingers tracing her soft skin, sensing her comfort with each touch returning. “That’s right, you are.”
We untangle from each other, moving off the chair. “I
just have one question,” I say since her honesty was seriously brave. I’m not about to tell her this out loud—it would sound patronizing—but I’m even more drawn to her for it.
“Sure, what is it?” she asks, sounding hesitant as she pulls her top back on.
“Is there anything you need from me? So you can hear me better?” I ask, buttoning up my shirt.
Her smile is warm, maybe even a little grateful, and it does something funny to my chest. “With them in, I can hear you about eighty-one percent of the time,” she says with a smirk.
I tilt my head, curious. “That’s specific.”
“So are the hearing tests these days.” Her tone turns more serious as she adds, “It’s like I tell my friends: I just prefer to see your face when we talk—it helps a lot to fill in any gaps. So maybe don’t wear a mask?” Her delivery is deadpan.
“And to think I was going to grab my zombie mask.”
She raises her hand like a stop sign. “Wait, are you into zombies?” Her look tells me she’d show me the door if I said yes.
“No. Are you?”
“The guy who was supposed to do the shoot today canceled because of a zombie video game launch he just had to be at. Apparently, it’s a thing.”
“Well, then I’ll change my answer. I love zombie games because they gave me this chance for our first date.”
Emphasis on first. I want Leighton to know I’d like to see her again. I need this to be a great date for her. Something fun, since she could probably use that after her shoot fell through twice, and after opening up the way she did. “How do you feel about geocaching?”
She tilts her head, her brow furrowed. “Never been. Is it fun?”
“Would I take you on a bad date?”
“I don’t know. Would you?” she teases.
“Try me.”
“We’ve already established I’m saying yes. Now, you’ll really have to impress me with this treasure hunt.”
“Challenge accepted.” I grab my socks and boots, tug them on, and we head out of the studio onto the streets of Hayes Valley. I open my geocache app, scrolling through nearby options. “There are some cool ones around here, but some of the best are in the Presidio. How do you feel about heading there?”
“I feel pretty good about it, Miles,” she says, and I notice her mood seems lighter now, more upbeat. That’s everything I could want. This date has barely started, and already, I don’t want it to end.
The Presidio is a national park with great views of the Pacific Ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge. It boasts some terrific nature trails, towering trees and a handful of redwood groves. But it’s also home to some seriously fun caches.
Like the sixth one we’ve been hunting this afternoon. “It’s over there,” she says, pointing toward a green park bench with absolute certainty.
I gape at her. “Seriously? You already found it? And you said you’d never been geocaching.”
She gives me a saucy look. “Yes, I kept my secret geocaching skills hidden from you, Miles.”
“You totally did,” I reply as we trek along Tennessee