On this thought, I got out of my car, went to the door of my studio, unlocked and opened it, walked in, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, stopped dead.

Because Axl Pantera was standing right next to “After.”

Right next to “After.”

In my studio.

Where I expressed…

Everything.

My heart lodged in my throat.

He was tall.

Beautiful body (and I meant beautiful, so beautiful I wanted to form it from concrete and shiny steel so it could live forever).

A thick head of spiky silver hair atop fabulous features—strong nose, square jaw, gorgeous full lips and the most remarkable ice-blue eyes I’d ever seen.

Truth be told, he wasn’t handsome in a classical sense.

He was more rough, though I’d prefer to call it roguish. With a high forehead, heavy dark brows, hooded eyes that were quite deep set and downturned at the ends which gave him a look like he was always alert, always assessing, didn’t miss a trick.

I had no idea where he got that silver hair. He couldn’t be much older than me.

But he worked it.

“How did you—?” I started to ask how he knew about my studio.

“Stood them up,” he stated. “Again.”

What?

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Lottie’s big thing. Gearing up. That was last night. Shower is coming up. Bachelorette party after that. Next day, wedding. And last night you’re…what? Kissin’ your dad’s ass?”

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I found my body stunned still.

This time it was to fight the pain.

“Told myself to have patience,” he continued. “This shit isn’t easy. I know. My dad didn’t hide the fact he wasn’t all that thrilled with the way I turned out either.”

Uh…

What?

He was…

Well, Axl was…

Perfect.

How could his dad not be thrilled with how he’d turned out?

“You, it was dance. Me, track and field. Dad was a track star. Sprinter. Long jump. I was the same, but better. A lot better. Didn’t make the Olympics, though, and you would have thought me not doing that when the vast majority of athletes can’t, I was patient zero with the coronavirus.”

“I—”