Page 25 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

And when I die right here on this sun-drenched sidewalk, bury me in a scent patch and lie to my mother.

And maybe give Jace my number.

(You know: for closure.)

Chapter Seven

Aimee

By the time we get to Jace’s SUV, I’m sweaty, over-caffeinated, and clinging to what’s left of my sanity.

My thighs hurt. Mysoulhurts.

And my ovaries are plotting a coup.

Jace is still shirtless. He tosses his towel in the back of the SUV, and his biceps flex with such shameless drama it might as well be choreographed. It’sabsurd.Offensive. Possiblyillegal. I get an unfiltered, up-close view ofAbs: The Musicaland nearly black out from the sheer visual impact.

(If the government wants to microchip people, they should use this man’s torso as the test site. I’d volunteer.)

“Thanks,” I mutter, trying to get in gracefully. I fail spectacularly and sort of tip sideways into the seat.

Jace catches the edge of the door and leans one arm against the roof, peering down at me with an expression so smug it should come with a warning label. His curls are damp and pushed back, and his smile is nothing short of reckless.

“That was fun,” he says, his tone all casual as though he hasn’t just spent the last couple of hours testing the very limits of public decency and my willpower.

He’s close.Tooclose. His eyes are sun-warmed green, his scent’severywhere, and I suddenly forget all my good decisions and every red flag I’ve ever studied.

“It was,” I admit. “Against all odds.”

“You gonna kiss me now?”

“No.”

(Yes.)

I force a grin instead, teeth catching my lower lip. “I’m going to think about it for two to five business hours and then write about it in my definitely-real scent journal.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Hope you describe the lighting. It really brought out my heroic side.”

I’m trying to stay professional. Truly. I am. I’m supposed to be gathering intel and staying detached, wrecking Wes’s life withwords, not with orgasms.

But Jace is standing there like a fucking fever dream; broad, golden and playful as hell, and I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan forhim.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

I swallow. “You have?”

“Mmhmm.” His fingers drum lightly against the roof of the SUV. “Especially when you bent over the fruit stand.”

“That was accidental,” I say too quickly.

“Didn’t look like an accident,” he says. “Looked like intent. Looked like trouble.”

I blink up at him, my pulse hammering in places that should not be awake right now.

“Okay,” I whisper.

His whole expression changes—less smirk, more tension; almost as though he’s checking to see if I mean it.

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