Page 16 of Made for Mayhem

The guy in the mirror looked like someone who said what he meant. Someone who took chances. Someone who didn’t always play it safe.

Someone Daisy would laugh with.

I cleaned up the sink, splashed water on my face, and took one last look before heading out.

The door opened, and Daisy’s head snapped up, already smiling.

But then her mouth fell open. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh wow.”

I lifted a brow. “That bad?”

She crossed the space between us in three quick steps, eyes raking over my face. “No,” she said. “That… That is dangerous.”

Something warm settled low in my stomach, liking the way her eyes couldn’t leave my face, memorizing every line.

Maybe I was reliable, unwilling to say no to something asked of me, even in a playful game with no stakes. But I didn’t feel careful or stuck or any of the other things I so often did when I did things solely for other people’s benefit.

I felt like someone new.

Someone who might just be brave enough to keep feeling this way, even after tonight.

4

Under no circumstances was I prepared for that mustache. Sure, it had been my idea, but absolutely nothing prepared me for the reality standing in front of me now.

With his beard gone, Huddy’s jaw was sharp in a way that felt almost unfair—clean lines, strong and deliberate, hiding beneath that rough exterior this whole time. The mustache only emphasized the planes of his face, bold and unapologetic, turning him from quietly handsome into are you kidding me right now.

Now, I could see the curl to his dark hair, swooping up at the nape of his neck beneath his hat. Even his shoulders looked broader, nothing about him hidden beneath the scraggly facial hair.

When I finally made it up to his bright hazel eyes, they were focused on me, watching me watch him.

“Dangerous?” he said, one brow lifting like he was amused despite himself.

I swallowed, my mouth having gone dry. This was the same Huddy as a few minutes before. Reliable, rule-following Huddy who drank chocolate milk straight from the carton and thought mayo on burgers was a crime. Except now he looked like he could ruin lives with a single look, but might apologize for it afterward.

“Yes,” I said. “You look like you either fix motorcycles or solve crimes on the beach at sunset. Maybe both.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, heat flickering in his eyes, and my stomach dipped in response. I couldn’t ignore how close we were standing, or how easy it would be to reach out and test whether that mustache felt as soft as it looked.

I didn’t. Barely.

Instead, I turned toward a rack of sweatshirts nearby, flipping through them with exaggerated interest. Generic sizing was great in theory. In practice, it usually meant will fit my shoulders or will fit my chest, but rarely both. Being soft and curvy had its perks, but buying anything off a rack without trying it on was always a gamble—especially when my boobs arrived in a room a full second before the rest of me.

“Tourist chic,” I muttered, holding up a navy crewneck that read CHICAGO in block letters.

Huddy hummed. “Bold.”

“I like to blend in,” I said. “Nothing says local like screaming it across your chest.”

I was still flipping through sizes when he reached over me, stopping my hand. I looked over my shoulder, savoring his warmth at my back.

“Here,” he said.

I turned in time to watch him pull his hoodie over his head. The hem lifted, just enough to expose a strip of skin and the hard lines of his stomach, and my brain blue-screened. Yes, I could see the width of his shoulders beneath his hoodie, and I’d guessed he was toned everywhere, but seeing was believing, and boy, was I believer in the abs I’d just seen. His chest was covered in a light dusting of hair, dark against his skin, and I had to bite my cheeks to keep my tongue from rolling out like a carpet. By the time my brain rebooted, he was holding the hoodie out to me.

“You don’t have to—” I started.

“I know,” he said, calm and steady. “But you’ve been shivering for hours.”