I stare down at the message. He’s here? Like . . . actually here?

A wave of uncertainty, nerves, and excitement hit me all at once.

After talking consistently for two weeks and receiving his little gifts—including chocolates and funny videos—he’s actually here, in the flesh.

And I’m . . . oh God, I’m wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and a pair of underwear while sitting at the kitchen island, painting rocks.

Knock. Knock.

My eyes flash to the door.

“Myla, if you’re there, open up. I look like a lurker.”

“Uh,” I shout. “Are you sure you want to come in?”

“Yes.” He chuckles. “I promise, this isn’t a date.”

“It’s not that,” I say, dismounting my stool. “I’m just not looking up to par.”

“I couldn’t care less. Just open the door.”

Of course, he wouldn’t care. Why would he? He hasn’t cared about any red flags I’ve sent his way, so why should this outfit be any different? Not that a shirt and underwear is a red flag per se. It’s more of a way of seduction than anything.

Throwing in the towel, I walk over to the door and open it, only to have the wind knocked right out of me, because oh my God, I forgot how handsome he is.

Yeah, I might have stared at some of his thirst trap Instagram pictures over the past two weeks. And there was that day that I accidentally searched his name in Google and focused only on the images tab. Pictures online do no justice to the real thing.

Tanned skin, scruff lining his square jaw, and those brilliantly blue eyes of his that look happy to see me. Relieved.

He gives me a smooth once-over and then says, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your outfit.” And then he steps forward, places his hand on my hip, and presses a quick kiss to the top of my head before making his way into my apartment.

So, uh . . . so we’re just doing the old kiss the head thing now?

Okay, sure. It’s not as though it made me melt like the Wicked Witch of the West or anything.

Just a normal kiss to the head that I can still feel, that is sending zaps of pleasure all the way down to the tips of my toes, that’s all.

“Wait, so you’re really painting rocks?” he asks, turning toward me, that smile of his so freaking adorable that I sigh from the sight of it.

“Yes, do you have a problem with rock painting?”

“No. I’ve never done it. Think you could spare one and let me try?”

I shrug. “If you must.”

“Your generosity is awe-inspiring.”

“I know.” I smirk and then walk into the kitchen. “Can I get you anything to drink? I have water and apple juice, but I’d prefer you don’t pick apple juice because I have just enough for tomorrow morning with my final piece of apple cinnamon coffee cake. I really don’t want to lose the joy of experiencing the divine combination one more time.”