Things between them had improved, mostly because he’d stopped trying to get pet sitters and had just been bringing the princess into the office with him every day.
He, apparently, was the least unpleasant scenario.
It might also be that him bringing her to his office every day meant that she could growl at him at will.
His phone buzzed again, surprising the hell out of him.
I was scared.
Ben read those three words and came to the obvious conclusion. He was a Black guy. She was a white girl. Of course, she was scared of him. It fucking sucked, but it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten that reaction, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last. It just . . . hurt.
This time, he was the one who didn’t respond.
He dropped his phone back on the table and went into the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face, going to bed . . . except, he needed to charge his phone. And that was the only reason he went back to the family room and picked up his cell.
The only reason.
But when he happened to glance at the screen—happened to see the open app—he saw that it was filled with messages.
I was scared because you’re beautiful. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And I’m just me, whose boyfriend broke up with her because she was boring.
And also maybe because I loved my dog more than him.
You’re mysterious and sexy and have amazing eyes and stubble and . . . I usually spend my nights watching Stargate while reading research papers.
You asked me to coffee and I panicked and I shouldn’t be typing this.
But I’m drunk and waiting for my Lyft and . . . shit. I know I shouldn’t be typing this.
So why can’t I stop?
Right.
Because I’m drunk and my Lyft doesn’t appear to be coming.
So I’m going to request another one, save you from my drunk ass, and go back to not messaging you.
Not that you’ll do anything but block me after this.
Or not respond. Because I deserve that.
Anyway, goodbye, Ben. Sorry I ghosted you before.
He reached the end of that text diarrhea to find his heart pounding, hope he was trying to ignore blossoming inside him.
Because she was drunk and waiting for a ride, who knew where, and he shouldn’t give a fuck, but his gut was twisting itself into knots thinking of red lips and curves being out there and drunk and . . . vulnerable.
Where are you?
He sent it and when she didn’t immediately respond, he sent another message.
Stef, honey, where are you right now?
A few seconds, his stomach clenched tight, before she replied.
Bobby’s Bar. My friends and I went for drinks after dinner.
Relief coursed through him.
You’re not alone then? They’ll get you home?
A long pause.
I put them in their Lyft. Waiting for mine.
“Fuck,” he hissed, shoving his feet into his shoes and shrugging into his jacket.
How long?
He moved out his front door, down the elevator to the garage.
For what?
Clamping the phone into the holder perched in his air vent, he replied before backing out of the stall.
Until the Lyft comes.
He was already on the freeway when she replied.
Don’t worry about it.
Fucking hell. He pulled over, typed a message, then continued driving.
How long?
A long pause, long enough that Ben’s teeth felt as though they’d been ground down to their nubs. Then her response came through, and it made pain radiate down his jaw.
It’s surging. Still trying to match.
He pulled in a breath through his nose, glad that he was only a few minutes out, and released it slowly as he exited the freeway and paused at the signal at the bottom of the off-ramp.
Risking a ticket, he speed-typed then continued driving.
I’ll be there in five minutes.
Nothing.
Then a flurry of messages came through.
He caught one of them as he stopped at a stop sign, but then he was continuing to drive, nearing the entrance of Bobby’s and slowing, looking for curves and red lips and . . .
There.
Shorter than he’d expected.
An ass that looked glorious in a pair of jeans. He’d known. He’d known.
Carefully, he pulled up to the curb and rolled down the window. “Stef.”
Her eyes were wide, and when he said her name, she squeaked. Literally squeaked. Fuck, she was cute. He put on the flashers and got out, rounding the hood and stopping in front of her.
Freckles.
She had a swathe of freckles on her nose.
Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, a few whisps having escaped to frame her face. “Get in,” he