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His eyes go molten. “I’d love to taste her pie.” And there’s no way in hell I’m imagining the way his gaze drops to my mouth. Or the way my nipples instantly harden under my dress.

I nearly choke on air. Holy hell. This man is going to wreck me. Nonnie’s just beaming, slicing pie like she doesn’t notice the way Preston’s eyes are practically eating me alive.

He takes the plate from her, but his gaze is still fixed on me, intense and electric. “Thanks, Nonnie,” he murmurs, but his voice is lower now, rougher. “This looks incredible.”

Pretty sure he’s not talking about the pie.

I try to steady my hands as I serve myself a slice, but the pie server scrapes against the dish because my fingers are trembling, and, oh my God, I am a disaster. He doesn’t miss it. He just grins, all wolfish amusement, like he loves that he’s making me come undone.

And then it happens.

Lunch ends, and Nonnie heads off to the kitchen and starts putting leftovers in Tupperware, leaving Preston and me at the table.

He leans in, voice pitched low for just me. “Hazel, would you have dinner with me on Wednesday?” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a command wrapped in velvet, and I swear my insides melt straight through the chair.

Holy hell. How can I refuse? I do a mental calendar check and realize I’m already booked on Wednesday. Darn. Since I was the one who arranged to have the book club meet at the library, I can’t exactly miss it.

“I can’t on Wednesday. But I’m free Friday,” I blurt, breathless and way too eager, but I genuinely don’t care. There’s no way I can hide what he does to me.

He grins, slow and lethal, blue eyes locking on my mouth. “Friday, it is then,” he repeats, like it’s a promise.

CHAPTER FOUR

PRESTON

The second I step out of Nonnie’s apartment, I dial back my swagger and let out a breath I’ve been holding since the moment Hazel walked in. I officially have a date with the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met, and I have five days to avoid screwing it up. That’s one hundred and twenty hours to somehow keep my cool, act like a grown-ass man, and not spiral into the kind of obsessive overthinking I make fun of my clients for.

I can still feel Hazel’s foot running up the inside of my leg, soft and sure and so lazy it almost killed me. Her eyes locked on mine, brown and full of mischief, like she knew exactly how close I was to losing it right there at her grandmother’s table.

My cock went from zero to diamond-hard in a single heartbeat, and I almost choked on my lemonade. If Nonnie hadn’t been sitting two feet away, I would have pulled Hazel into my lap, torn her little dress right off, and kissed her until she forgot her own name.

But Hazel just smirked and dragged her foot back down, slow as sin, like she was making damn sure I’d remember every second.

And I goddamn do. It’s playing on a continuous loop in my head.

I make it to the elevator, jab the button, and pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over Hazel’s number. Before I left, she grabbed my phone and added her address and phone number to my contacts. Then she texted herself from my phone so she’d have my number.

Should I text her tonight? Wait until morning? Wait until she texts first? Every move feels like a tactical negotiation, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure Hazel falls hard for me, too.

Game on, Gorgeous Girl.

After two sleepless nights spent thinking about Hazel nonstop, I’m running on fumes. And no amount of caffeine can cure this. I make it twenty minutes into Tuesday morning’s project review before Jude leans over and asks, “Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”

I look up, and Jude’s looking at me like I lost my goddamn mind while all the interns stare at me, half bored and half afraid I’m about to assign them some torturous task.

“I eat Cheerios.” I take a deep breath and wipe the scowl off my face. Fuck. Lack of sleep is starting to turn me into a real asshole. “And they were just fine this morning. Let’s get this shit done so I can do something that actually makes us money.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Jude takes over the meeting while I’m so wrapped up in memories of Hazel that my brain is basically useless. I glance down at my pad and realize I’ve unconsciously drawn her profile, complete with dimples and luscious pouty lips. Not exactly my best professional moment.

Jude leans over me to eye the drawing and says, “At least now I know what’s up with you. Never thought I’d see the day it happened, but we’re all wrong at least once in our lives.”

“Fuck off,” I grumble back. Not original, but it’s the most I can come up with. The truth is, I haven’t been this off-balance since grad school. I’m used to running the show, calling the shots, building the world I envision. This thing with Hazel has me completely unmoored.

I survive the meeting, but barely. After, I retreat to my office and stare at my phone. It’s time for me to make the next move.

I hit up Google and find a florist in downtown Worthington Hills that does one-hour deliveries. Fucking perfect. I search the site and zero in on wildflowers because, from what I saw yesterday, Hazel isn’t a roses-and-baby’s-breath kind of girl. No. She’s wildflowers, color and energy and beauty that punches you right in the chest. Then I come across the perfect bouquet of blue cornflowers and orange poppies, all tangled up with tiny white blossoms and curly green stems. Perfect. I punch in the order, pay extra for the fastest delivery they offer, and type out my note.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Counting the days until Friday.