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“That’s it.” Daisy leans her elbows on the bar, face unreadable. She’s still holding the box cutter, spinning it absently between her fingers before looking down at her watch. “Now, you have your five minutes.”

Fucking hell. My mind goes blank. I open my mouth and blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Last night didn’t go the way I wanted. At all. I was a dick. You called me out, and I deserved it.”

That pulls a faint smile out of her, just a flicker. Progress. “All of that is true, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. “I want to get to know you.”

“You’re wasting your time.” She holds my gaze, and I can see the truth behind her words. “I don’t hop into bed with athletes.”

Fuck. My chest is doing something I don’t have a name for. “Look, I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t want you.” I push off the bar and take one step toward her, close enough that I have to keep my voice low. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Whatever it is scares the fuck out of me, but I can’t fight it.” I hold her gaze and don’t let go. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

I’m already mentally kicking my own ass when she glances at the clock over the register. “The bar doesn’t open for three hours. We have enough time for a quick lunch if you’re game.”

If I’m game? Holy fuck. I feel like I’ve just scored the winning goal in the Stanley Cup playoffs.

CHAPTER FOUR

DAISY

He doesn’t even blink when I insist on driving. In fact, it’s pretty freaking funny watching him fold his six-and a-half-foot-frame into my tiny Fiat.

Harrison Stafford ducks his head and swings one long leg in, knees up around his ears, and for a second, I think he’s physically incapable of fitting. There’s a grunt, a shoulder, a massive bicep flexing against the door frame. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh out loud.

“Make sure to keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” I tease, putting the key in the ignition.

He glances over at me and groans. “I can’t make any promises.”

I peel out of the parking lot, fast and clean, and I don’t miss the way his hand instantly grabs the oh-shit bar above the window. Knuckles white, forearm bulging. I pretend not to notice, but the way he’s braced in the seat, muscles tight, tells me he’s not nearly as chill as he acts.

“You’re a confident driver,” he says, which is a polite way of saying I drive like I’m qualifying for the Indy 500.

“Hold on tight, Stafford.”

He glares, but there’s a flash of a grin. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

The words hit in a way they shouldn’t. I take the next corner sharp, just to see what he’ll do. He laughs, hand gripping tighter, eyes locked on me.

I take the final turn into Lou’s Diner hard enough to make the tires squeal. Harrison lets out another laugh, louder this time, like it actually feels good to hang on for dear life. His hand is welded to the oh-shit bar. His body takes up all the oxygen in the car.

Oh, my word, he looks like a caged animal. Or a circus bear jammed into a Smart Car, but somehow hotter.

I kill the engine, letting the silence settle around us. He’s breathing faster, chest moving under that black henley, collar just a little damp where it hugs his neck. I don’t let myself notice his thighs spread to bracket the tiny glove box. I absolutely do not look at his hands.

I look at his hands.

“You gonna be able to get out of there, or do you need extraction?” I ask, keeping my voice flat, even though I’m inches from cracking up. Part of me wants to just watch him struggle. The rest of me wants to crawl over the console and see what happens if I straddle his lap.

He grins, all teeth, and lets go of the oh-shit bar. For one second, it looks like the cramped seat is actually winning. Then he unfolds himself, slow and dirty, dragging his body out the door like it’s a striptease and I’m the only audience.

“Not the first time I’ve had to squeeze out of a tight spot, Daisy.”

Fudgemuffin. The way he says my name, low and rough, does things to my hussy lady bits. “Good to know,” I call over my shoulder as I lead him to the front door of Lou’s Diner.

It isn’t much more than a little hole in the wall, but it’s got the best burgers in a fifty-mile radius. The bell above the glass door dings as we enter, hard enough to announce us to the whole room. Nobody bothers to look. Not the guy at the counter, hunched over his crossword puzzle. Not the two women in the corner booth with matching perms and matching attitudes. Not even the cook, visible through the pass, flipping something greasy on the flat-top.

“Seat yourselves,” the middle-aged waitress calls from behind the counter. I lead the way to a booth against the far wall. The red vinyl is cracked and duct-taped at the seams, more silver than scarlet these days. The Formica tabletop has been scrubbed down so many times the pattern is basically gone. There are napkin dispensers, salt and pepper, and a sugar shaker that’s probably older than me. Classic.

Harrison slides in, adjusting his knees so he doesn’t dislocate something. Here, he looks normal. Less like a headline, more like just a guy at lunch.