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And that’s how it goes for the next few days. I text her every morning and night. I’m a man obsessed. No, scratch that. Obsession doesn’t even touch it. Hazel is a goddamn chemical reaction in my blood. She’s in my veins, my brain, wrapped around every single nerve ending.
She always replies. Sometimes, it’s just a smiley, sometimes, a little sassy comeback that makes me want to drag her into my bed and see what other kinds of smart remarks she can make when she’s coming apart for me.
The week crawls by, glacial. Each day is a hellish cocktail of need, frustration, and the kind of anticipation that makes my skin itch from the inside out.
I can’t focus. Not on work, not on food, not even on the gym. Every time my mind drifts for a second, it’s Hazel. By Thursday night, I’m so strung out I can barely sit still.
Friday morning, I wake up hard and aching, with my first thought being of her. No, fuck it, my every thought is of her. I don’t even pretend to play it cool anymore. I text her at six-fifteen in the morning.
Me
Tonight’s the night, Gorgeous Girl.
Gorgeous Girl
For what?
Me
Ha-ha. Are you trying to give me a hard time?
Gorgeous Girl
Just making sure you’re awake.
Awake? I’m wide awake. Locked and loaded, ready for my girl.
CHAPTER FIVE
HAZEL
Friday night sneaks up on me faster than I expect. I spend most of my week oscillating between excitement and full-scale panic, and by the time it’s six-thirty, I’m a tightly wound ball of nerves masquerading as a woman. The first real date I’ve had in, oh, forever, and I’m not even going to pretend like I’m not losing my entire mind.
My closet is a graveyard of last-minute fashion regrets. There’s a perfectly cute green wrap dress laid out on my bed, but all I see is potential pit stains and the memory of Nonnie calling it “saucy.” The alternative is a pair of black dress pants and an emerald green sweater, but I’m not sure what look I’m going for.
I go with the dress. It makes my boobs look fantastic, the color brings out my eyes, and with a little luck, the wrap style will disguise my emergency junk food bloat from earlier in the week. I spend way too long with the curling iron, and my hair is… Well, it’s doing its best. The minute I step outside, Texas humidity will make sure I look like a startled sheep, but for now, the curls are bouncy and I’m almost feeling myself.
Almost.
Until I look in the mirror and realize I forgot to do my makeup. Darn it.
I scramble, dabbing on the world’s fastest makeup job—just some tinted moisturizer, a swipe of mascara, and lip tint. There. That’s the best I’m going to look, ever.
At ten minutes to seven, my phone buzzes with a text from Preston.
Downstairs Flirt
On my way. Hope you’re hungry.
Should I be honest and tell him I’m too excited for this date to be hungry for food? No. That’s probably too desperate and needy. Instead, I go for an easy response.
Me
I can’t wait. I’m starving.
Ten minutes later, my heart is beating so loud it could be the opening act for a rock concert. I smooth my hair, wipe my hands on my dress, and try to breathe through the panic.
The knock comes. Not too soft, not too loud, just… confident. Like him. I swear, my stomach does a straight-up Olympic somersault.
