Or on the third or fifth or the tenth I silently add, but there’s no need for Mick to know what a prude I really am.
“I don’t either.” He brushes my hair from my forehead, but makes no move to roll off me, ensuring this conversation feels very…intimate. “Sorry. You just…do something to me.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. You do something to me, too.”
“And just for the record, I don’t consider this our first date,” he adds. “Our first date is going to be a lot more fun. Just you and me, a nice restaurant, maybe some bowling, and a lot less puking.”
My cheeks flame even hotter. “I can’t believe you still want a first date after all that.”
“Oh, I definitely do. So, what do you think? Maybe I’m not so bad, after all?”
“Maybe not,” I admit.
He grins. “I’ll take that begrudging endorsement. Those are my favorite kinds of endorsements, by the way, the begrudging ones, so don’t think you’re going to scare me off that easily.”
I exhale a soft laugh. “Okay. One date,” I say, holding up a finger between us. “That’s all I’m offering. One date and…we’ll see.”
“Amazing.” He drops a kiss to my cheek. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all year.”
“The year’s only a few hours old,” I say wryly, giving his shoulder a nudge. “So, I’ll take that for what it’s worth.”
Making out is one thing; having a conversation while Mick is still between my legs—and still hard—is another. I’m not nearly chill enough about this kind of stuff to pull this off for much longer.
“Smart.” Mick rolls over, stretching out on his back beside me on the futon with his hands behind his head. As I sit up, crossing my arms over my chest and willing all the tingling parts of me to calm the hell down, he adds with a grin. “So, dinner? Tonight?”
“I think I need a day to recover first,” I say, though a part of me is just as eager for our “try-out” date. I want to see if we keep getting along this well, if he keeps surprising me in such pleasant ways. “Tomorrow’s my first day back at work since vacation. I don’t want to be worn out by the end of my shift.”
Mick grins wickedly. “And why would you be worn out, Miller? Were you planning to keep me up all night long?”
“No!” I smack his thigh—that well-muscled thigh that I do not want to see out of those jeans, thankyouverymuch. At least…not yet. “Sometimes I work three-day shifts. This week, I go in at noon tomorrow and don’t get off until noon on Thursday, and my bunk is in an old utility closet where the pipes clang the entire time I’m trying to sleep.”
His brows pinch together. “They make you sleep in a utility closet?”
I shrug. “I don’t mind. At least I have some privacy and don’t have to listen to Kevin snore in the guys’ bunkroom all night. And it won’t be for much longer. The new firehouse is going to have six individual rooms so everyone on shift will have their own space.”
“Nice,” he says. “And maybe when you guys move to the new place, my sister will spend less time making googly eyes at the other side of the street.”
I laugh. “Jake’s the same way. We’ve started singing Moon River every time we catch him staring out the window.”
“That’s awesome,” he says with a grin. “I usually throw rolls at Naomi, but Moon River is way better. More embarrassing and less needless destruction of innocent bread. We have to do something to reinforce the message that drooling over your boo in public is gross at their age.”
I snort. “At any age.”
“Agreed,” he says, nudging my knee with his fist. “But if you can’t help yourself, it’s okay. I won’t judge. I can even stand in my window at a certain time each day to make it easier for you, if you want.”
“In your dreams, Whitehouse.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny I enjoy chatting with him nearly as much as I enjoy making out with him.
Nearly…
“Seriously, though, I’m excited about our date,” he says, the teasing note gone from his voice. “But I’d love for us to have more time than the hour or whatever you get for dinner while you’re on duty. So maybe Thursday night when you get off would be better? Or will you need to head home to crash?”
“Thursday should be fine,” I say. “Assuming we don’t have any middle-of-the-night calls on Wednesday.”
“Cool, then I’ll pick you up Thursday night at seven?” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “We can get dinner and see what sounds like fun from there? Maybe a beer? Or bowling? Beer and bowling?”
“Seven is good, but I’m terrible at bowling,” I say, resisting the urge to shiver as his fingertips linger on my neck. “We could go to the shooting range instead, and I could kick your ass at target practice.”