Chapter 3

“Looks like my ride bailed,” Margo says, glancing around the near-empty reception hall with an exaggerated pout. “Mind giving a girl a lift home?”

“Sure,” I say, maybe a little too fast. She flashes me that impish smile and damn if my heart doesn’t do a full somersault like I’m back in boot camp getting screamed at. Only this time, I like it.

“Lemme just grab my jacket.”

I turn toward the coat check, giving myself a moment to breathe—because holy hell. When exactly did Margo Warner stop being Trent’s awkward kid sister and morph into this?

Because this?

This is a full-blown woman in a dress that should be classified as a controlled substance. That satin number clings to her like it’s terrified of letting go. Her red hair’s twisted up all elegant and messy, with those stubborn little curls slipping free—like even her hair refuses to behave.

She used to trail after us at backyard barbecues, all skinny limbs and braces, asking a million questions and trying to keep up with the guys. And now? Now she walks into a room and makes it feel like someone turned the dial up to dangerously distracting.

And that kiss…

Jesus.

That wasn’t a “thanks for playing along” kind of kiss. That was a “let me scramble your brain and short-circuit your bloodstream” kind of kiss. I’ve taken sniper fire with less impact.

I shrug into my jacket and head back out, trying like hell to remember all the reasons she’s supposed to be off-limits.

She’s leaning against a marble pillar, tapping away at her phone, lower lip caught between her teeth. The screen’s glow casts soft shadows across her cheekbones, making her look like something out of a dream I probably shouldn’t be having.

Get your shit together, Stone.

She’s Trent’s sister.

She’s been off-limits since puberty.

You're just the getaway driver in a rom-com rescue plot.

Nothing more.

Even if she does smell like trouble and vanilla and every good decision I’ve ever ignored.

“Ready?” I ask, masking every reckless thought behind a calm smile as I offer my arm.

She looks up with a grin that could melt Kevlar and tucks her phone away. “Lead the way, Commander.”

We step into the night, the cool air doing absolutely nothing to chill the heat pulsing beneath my skin. I guide her to my truck, opening the passenger door like a gentleman, though I’m one heartbeat away from forgetting how to breathe.

“Your chariot awaits, m’lady,” I say with a mock bow, because deflection is the only weapon I’ve got right now.

She giggles, lifting her dress just enough to climb in. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Tell me—does this ride come with snacks and emotionally unavailable men, or just the one?”

“Just the one,” I mutter, smirking as I shut the door. “But he’s house-trained, so there’s that.”

The drive is… easy. Familiar. Comfortable in that way you only get with someone who knows the worst version of you and still remembers your birthday.

We trade stories, tease each other, fall right into the old rhythm—but underneath it all, something electric simmers.

Every glance at her profile sends a fresh jolt down my spine. The way her lips move when she talks. The spray of freckles across her cheeks. The soft laugh that slips out when I mispronounce the name of her nail polish color—something like Bare With Me or You Wish.

And then there’s her dress, which keeps riding up her thigh like it’s in on the conspiracy.

I grip the wheel a little tighter.

Because yeah—I’m supposed to be the guy who always keeps his cool. The ex-SEAL. The unflappable one.

But Margo Warner?

She’s got me flapped as hell.

Too soon, I’m pulling up in front of her friend’s apartment complex, wishing I had a few more red lights and a couple less boundaries.

I throw the truck in park and glance over at her. She’s bathed in the soft amber of the overhead light, cheeks still flushed from laughing, lips slightly parted like she’s about to say something clever and completely undo me.

“I, uh…” Why is my voice scratchy all of a sudden? I clear my throat, regroup. “I had a really good time tonight.”

Understatement of the year.

It’s been a long damn time since I laughed like that without someone bleeding out nearby.

“Me too, Colt.” She grins at me, all dimples and green eyes and soft curls falling loose around her face. Then she glances up toward her window and instantly winces. “Oh great.”

“Problem?”

She nods toward the third floor. “Looks like Lisa’s decided to host a late-night symphony for two. I’d prefer not to play third wheel to that concert.” Her nose scrunches, and it’s absurd how cute that expression is. Like she’s annoyed and adorable all at once.

“Yeah, no one wants to walk in on a live-action romance novel.” I chuckle. “Plot twist: surprise roommate on the couch.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “A very awkward epilogue.”

There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, charged. I should probably drop her off and head home before I do something stupid, but my mouth moves before my brain gets a vote.

“We could… get out of here. Grab a drink somewhere?”

She shakes her head, but her smile stays. “I’ve had enough people for one night. But… maybe we could just drive around a bit? Maybe head out to Lake Wylie?” She turns toward me then, biting her bottom lip like she knows exactly what that request sounds like. “I mean, if it’s not too much of an imposition. You’ve already gone above and beyond.”

Imposition? Woman, I’d rearrange my entire life if it meant another hour in your orbit.

But I play it cool. “Nah, no trouble. Just glad I could help you out tonight.” I shift into gear, trying not to sound like a man who’s two seconds from combusting. “Lake Wylie it is.”

As we pull away from the curb, I can feel the shift in the air—like the molecules in the cab have caught on to what’s happening and are crackling in approval. Something’s different. Not just the flirty banter or the way her hand brushes mine every so often on the console. It's deeper. Older. Like a line we've been dancing around for years is finally starting to blur.

I grip the wheel tighter.

Her dress has ridden up again. More thigh. More temptation.

I focus on the road like it’s the last thing tethering me to sanity.

Get it together, Stone.

This is Trent’s little sister.

She used to wear jelly sandals and color her hair with Kool-Aid.

She’s sweet, funny, thoughtful—dangerously the opposite of what I’ve earned in this life.

And still…

She’s sitting next to me, stealing glances, biting her lip, setting every fuse I’ve tried to keep buried.

She probably just wants to talk. Reminisce. Cool down from the night.

…Right?

We pass a sign. Belmont—10 miles.

The lake’s just ahead. And my restraint is dangling by a thread.