Page 101 of Checking It Twice
I don’t know what I was picturing—maybe something sterile and bachelor-pad basic, all black leather and a giant TV. Instead, Mitchell’s place is warm and lived-in, with actual books on the shelves and photos that aren’t just him holding hockey trophies.
“Wine?” he asks, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ve got a bottle open, or I could make something else if you prefer—”
“Wine’s perfect.”
He pours two glasses of something red that looks delicious, his movements slightly clumsy in a way that’s adorably nervous. When he hands me the glass, his fingers brush mine, and I catch the way his breath hitches at the contact.
“So,” I say, taking a sip. “Tour?”
“Right. Tour.” He runs his free hand through his hair—that tell of his I’ve learned to recognize. “It’s not much, but—”
“Mitchell.”
“Yeah?”
“Relax. It’s just me.”
Something in his expression softens at that. Just me. Like I’m someone safe, someone he doesn’t have to perform for.
“Kitchen,” he says, gesturing to where we’re standing. “I don’t cook often, but I do enjoy it. Tonight we’ll have pasta—hopefully that’s okay.”
“Perfect,” I confirm.
The kitchen is clean and modern, with ingredients still scattered across the counter. I can smell something simmering—garlic and herbs that make my mouth water.
“Living room,” he continues, leading me into the main space. “I cleaned. Fair warning—this is not how it usually looks.”
I laugh despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach. “What does it usually look like?”
“Like a tornado hit it. There’s usually hockey gear everywhere, takeout containers, clothes I swore I’d fold eventually.” He pauses by the couch, that nervous energy radiating off him. “I made an effort tonight.”
The admission hits softer than it should. Made an effort. For me.
“I appreciate the effort.”
We move through the space, and I’m hyperaware of his presence behind me. Close enough that I catch hints of his cologne, that clean masculine scent that’s been driving me crazy since Minnesota. Every few steps, his hand touches my lower back—guiding me around furniture, steadying me when I lean in to look at a photo.
Small touches that shouldn’t affect me this much but absolutely do.
“Guest room,” he says, pushing open a door to reveal a space that’s clearly never been used. “In case my parents ever visit and want to pretend I’m a responsible adult.”
“Are you? A responsible adult?”
His grin is self-deprecating. “Jury’s still out.”
We end up by the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Dallas skyline, the city sprawling in lights below us. It’s beautiful, romantic even, and I’m trying to focus on the view instead of the way he’s moved to stand behind me.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, but my voice comes out breathier than intended because his chest is almost touching my back, his presence surrounding me like heat.
“Yeah,” he agrees, but when I glance at the reflection in the window, he’s not looking at the city. He’s looking at me.
His hand comes up to sweep my hair off one shoulder, the gesture gentle but deliberate. Then his lips are on the back of my neck, soft and warm and incredibly distracting.
I close my eyes, leaning back into him without meaning to. The contact sends electricity racing down my spine, and I barely suppress the soft sound that wants to escape.
“Mitchell,” I breathe.
“Mmm?” His mouth moves lower, finding that spot where my neck meets my shoulder that makes my knees go weak.
