Page 2 of Pregnant in Plaid
"There's no such thing as no-pressure setups," I mutter, but I'm smiling despite myself.
And then he walks in.
Trace.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that flops just slightly over his forehead and a grin that could probably convince you to do truly stupid things. Like, invest in cryptocurrency stupid. Or try karaoke sober stupid. He's wearing jeans that fit in a way that should be illegal and a henley that makes me forget how to form sentences.
"You must be Patrice," he says, and his voice is warm and low and does things to my central nervous system that violate several laws of physics. He holds out his hand, and when I shake it, there's a spark—not metaphorical, like actual static electricity that makes us both laugh.
"Shocking introduction," I say, because apparently my brain thinks puns are flirting.
"Guess we have chemistry," he replies, grin widening, and oh no. Oh no.
This man is dangerous.
The bar is loud, crowded, and smells like beer and bad decisions. Tessa gets tipsy after two drinks and starts singing along to every song like she's auditioning for The Voice: Drunk Edition. Gage watches her with the kind of fond exasperation that comes from being deeply, irrevocably in love. It's adorable and slightly nauseating.
But then Tessa gets too tipsy, and suddenly she's pale and swaying, clutching Gage's arm and mumbling something about the room spinning.
"I'm taking her home," Gage says, already guiding her toward the door with the efficiency of a man who's handled worse situations in war zones.
"I'll take Patrice back later," Trace offers, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow. "Unless you want to bail too?"
I should say yes. I should absolutely leave with Tessa and Gage, go back to the cabin, drink tea, and have a perfectly reasonable, responsible evening.
Instead, I hear myself say, "One more drink couldn't hurt."
Narrator voice: It could, in fact, hurt quite a bit.
One drink turns into three. Three turns into dancing. Dancing turns into his hands on my waist, my fingers in his hair, the bass vibrating through the floor and into my bones. He smells like cedar and something woodsy, and when he leans in close to talk over the music, his breath tickles my ear and makes my knees forget how to function.
"Having fun?" he asks, lips dangerously close to my temple.
"More than I should," I admit, because tequila has made me honest.
"Good," he murmurs, and the single word sends heat pooling low in my belly.
We stumble out of the bar sometime after midnight, laughing about nothing and everything. The Alaskan air is cold and crisp, stars scattered across the sky like someone knocked over a jar of glitter. Trace offers me his jacket, and I take it because I'm freezing and because it smells like him.
"My place isn't far," he says, and it's not a question but it's not not a question, and I know exactly what he's offering.
I should say no. I should call a cab, go back to Gage's, and wake up tomorrow with nothing more than a mild hangover and some blurry photos.
But I don't.
"Lead the way," I say instead.
His cabin is small but cozy, filled with handmade furniture that makes me wonder if he built everything himself.
"Want some water?" he asks, and I nod because my mouth is suddenly dry for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.
He hands me a glass, and our fingers brush, and that spark from earlier is back but bigger now, crackling between us like live wire. He steps closer. I don't step back. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw, and I lean into it like I'm starving for touch.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice rough.
"Don't you dare," I reply.
And then we're kissing—deep, desperate, all-consuming. He tastes like whiskey and want, and I can't get enough. My hands tug at his shirt, his fingers tangle in my hair, and we stumble toward the bedroom in a graceless tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.
