“Meatballs?” he asked, stepping out of the shower and following her out of the little fake bathroom.

“You’ve never had the IKEA meatballs?” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as they followed the arrows painted on the floor toward the next section of the showroom. “Oh, you are in for a treat.”

His stomach growled, but he barely noticed anything beyond the brush of her hip against his. “How many more things are on the list?”

“Fifteen,” she said with a sigh.

“You’re doing the next one.”

She looked down at the printed scavenger hunt list in her hand. “I can totally pretend to be asleep in a bed.”

He almost tripped over his own feet as he imagined Chelle spread out on a bed, the sheets tangled up around her waist, and her amazing tits bare to the night air. Lust, sure and strong, sucker punched his dick and sucked all the air out of his lungs. Chelle shot him a questioning look as he tried his best to get his shit back together. Too bad that mental image of her was not leaving his head.

Yeah, good luck forgetting it—ever—Beckett.

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Chelle

Feet aching from walking a million miles in IKEA, Chelle settled back against the booth at Bottle Rocket and did her best not to notice the live wire of sexual awareness lighting her up from the inside.

The wine bar was down the block from Chelle’s apartment, and she’d fallen in love with the place the moment she’d stepped inside the soft-lit cozy space. A hockey-themed wine bar may not be something that seemed to make sense at first, but Ice Knights player Alex Christensen was a guy that always made things happen on the ice and off of it. He was definitely a Harbor City favorite, which showed in the mix of clientele at the wine bar, where, in addition to the wine snobs, there were the Ice Knights fans and neighborhood regulars who showed up for the California rosé and conversation.

Chelle swore she always saw more folks from her building at Bottle Rocket than the quarterly tenant meetings. Of course, since the wine bar didn’t include Chelle’s building nemesis, Suzanne, who dreamed of being the tenant dictator, it was a lot more relaxing than tenant events—including the annual holiday party.

Which was next week and—to make it even more horrifying—her uncle would be there as Suzanne’s date. Oh yeah, and there was no way Chelle could skip the event. Gut twisting in anticipated agony, she sank back against the tufted upholstery of the two-person booth at the back wall, closed her eyes, and let out a miserable groan.

“Should I have gotten an extra glass?” Nash asked.

Chelle cracked an eyelid open. “Probably an extra bottle.”