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CHAPTER ONE
MIA
This is the best freaking champagne I’ve ever tasted. Jaxson didn’t spare any expense planning his proposal to my bestie, Harper. I’m three glasses deep and working on my fourth, the stem of the flute cool against my palm. The only person more buzzed than me is Harper, who’s holding out her hand and making sparkly jazz hands every time someone glances at her new ring.
Jaxson is sitting next to her, stoic as a mountain, looking at her like she personally invented the concept of happiness. They’re not even pretending to play it cool.
The table is crowded with empty dessert plates, coffee cups, and the casualties of several toasts. I’m busy cataloguing the disaster zone when the chair to my right pulls out, scraping over the stone floor, and Mick slides in without warning or apology. I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. The size, the quiet, the way the air shifts to accommodate someone who always moves like he owns the perimeter.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just picks up the bottle and tops off my glass, steady and precise. Our hands brush on the stem. Two seconds, maybe less, but it’s long enough to make me forget the punchline of whatever snarky comment I was about to deliver. I freeze. So does he. The contact is nothing. It is accidental and circumstantial, static in the system. But my heart spikes like I’ve been handed a live wire, and from the way Mick’s jaw tightens, I’m not the only one pretending it’s no big deal.
“Thank you.” I manage to breathe as he lets go. His arm comes to rest on the back of my chair but not touching. Just there, marking territory. I can feel the heat of him even through the layers of my dress and cardigan, which is honestly unfair.
“You’re welcome, baby” Mick breathes, low and under his breath. The sound is oddly intimate, and I look up at him and immediately regret it. He’s staring right at me, head tilted, like he’s trying to read the fine print of my soul.
I take a gulp of the champagne hoping to cool some of the electricity flowing through me.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Mick says, voice pitched for just the two of us. His mouth is so close I can smell the faint trace of whiskey.
“I don’t have anything to say,” I say, side-eyeing him. God. I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself.
He nods and sits quietly beside me. There’s a lull, a beat where neither of us speaks. I’m too aware of how our knees are almost touching under the table. I bounce mine once, then force it flat, crossing my ankles.
Mick shifts, facing me more directly, his shoulder crowding into my space. The cuff of his sleeve is unbuttoned and there’s a fresh scrape on his knuckle. His jaw flexes when he speaks again, and the light from the fireplace throws a thin, pale scar along his chin into relief.
“So. What’s your verdict?” he asks.
“On what?”
He gestures loosely around the room. “The proposal. The ring. The happily ever after.”
I let my eyes roll up and left, a calculated show of consideration. “Proposal was a seven out of ten. Ring is a seven-point-five. We’ll have to wait and see how the happily ever after plays out.”
He grins. “You grade tough.”
“You asked.” I shrug and take another sip of my champagne.
“What made you give those low scores?” He sits back and stares at me waiting for an answer.
“Well,” I give him a shrug. “The ring is beautiful but way to big for my tastes. I work in a hospital, so I tend to like smaller with more meaning. You know like an antique with history.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this, but the champagne has loosened my tongue so here we go. “And I’m also not a fan of big, public displays.”
“It wasn’t really that big of a display.” Mick reminds me. “Just a few of their closest friends and her brother.”
“That’s still too many people for me. I want a private proposal and a small intimate wedding.” Why am I telling this stranger about my ideal wedding? I’m going to blame it on the champagne.
Harper’s laughter erupts again, and for a second Mick’s attention snaps back to she and Jaxson. I take the opportunity to breathe. My fingers drum a quick rhythm against the base of my glass before I catch myself and stop.
The conversation circles, the champagne flows, and the world outside the big picture window goes from blue dusk to black in the space of three hours. At some point, Mick stands up to flag down another bottle, and when he comes back he sets it in front of me like a dare. He pours, careful not to spill a drop, and the bubbles climb in the glass like they’re trying to reach escape velocity.
“You’re wasting your time on me. I’m not going to get drunk and hop into bed with you.”
He tilts his head. “I’m not trying to get you into bed.”
I’m not going to lie; a little part of me is disappointed. “Good to know.”
“But I might be trying to get you to agree to a date.” His eyes turn serious, low and honest. For one weird, destabilizing second, I want to lean in and taste his lips. Instead, I knock back the rest of my glass, feeling the champagne hit my system all at once.
When I set the empty glass down, Mick’s hand covers mine. Warm, steady, completely still. For a moment the rest of the room disappears, and I can feel is the weight of his hand, the absolute certainty of it.
