She laughed nervously, feeling a little giddy. “Our date?”

“You lost your chance to make your move, so I’m making mine. These are for you.” He lifted his hand, showing her a fistful of wildflowers, which he must have picked for her because the stems were scraggly and dirty.

Oh, how she loved that! She couldn’t have stopped the dreamy sigh that slipped out if she’d wanted to. “Quincy, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“You said wildflowers were your favorite, like the ones on the field by the bridge, right? That’s where these are from.”

She couldn’t believe he’d remembered that from their first few weeks of texting back in May. A wave of emotion stole her voice. He stepped closer, bringing the rich, masculine scents of leather, earth, and man, with an undercurrent of something she had come to know as uniquely Quincy, and her pulse quickened.

“You should get your things,” he said confidently.

“My things?”

“Keys? Purse?” His gaze moved slowly from her face all the way down to her toes, appreciation rising in his eyes as they followed the same path back up her black leggings, lingering long enough on her white ballet wrap shirt to make her traitorous nipples pebble to greet him. A wicked grin appeared as he met her gaze and said, “As much as I hate to ask you to cover up, you’ll need a jacket.”

Despite her rattled nerves, she was surprised that no part of her wanted to make up an excuse tonight. “Okay. Do you want to come in and wait? I have to run upstairs to my apartment for my jacket.”

He cocked a brow and said, “You can wear mine.” He shrugged his jacket off and held it open for her to put on. “I’m not taking the chance that you won’t come back down.”

She laughed softly, loving his sense of humor. “Won’t you be cold?”

“Not likely with you by my side.”

Even though she knew she wouldn’t be cold with him by her side, either, hearing him say it so openly made her a little nervous.

He must have noticed, because he said, “I already promised to keep my hands to myself, and if you’re worried, text that blonde you’re always whispering with when I come around. Tell her I’m taking you out.”

“Her name is Angela,” she said, feeling silly for being so cautious. “I don’t need to text her. I trust you, Quincy. A psycho killer probably wouldn’t take the time to text for months on end. Let me just change out of my ballet slippers.”

He cocked that brow again, and she explained. “I keep a pair of slip-ons right behind the desk.” She pointed to the reception area.

His eyes remained glued on her as she changed her shoes. She grabbed her keys and stepped outside. He helped her put on his jacket, which was about five sizes too big, but cozy warm and smelled delicious, like him.

He held her gaze as he rolled up the sleeves and said, “You look hot in my jacket.”