Good God in Heaven, what did I get myself into?

The bedroom curtains were drawn tightly enough to hold the sunshine at bay. The room was comfortable, small but neat, and smelled like oak and bonfire smoke and something else, something sort of sweet and clean, and the bed, though a mess, looked as inviting as I remembered it feeling.

I moved around a lot as a child and in my adult life. Waking up in unfamiliar rooms was nothing new.

I was not used to waking up in new rooms that did not belong to me at all, laying naked next to an equally naked stranger.

Dean. His name sent a thrill down my spine—anticipation or muscle memory I couldn’t recall. If I had to wake up next to a stranger, I was so very glad that he had been the stranger.

The door was cracked from where I had opened it and found my jeans, and I heard Dean around in the kitchen. The smell of strong coffee was not quite enticing enough to get me to leave.

What had I been thinking last night? Jimmy Swan going home with a guy that attractive—it bordered preposterous. And now there was breakfast.

He was going to ask me to leave. Sorry, he’d say, but I was very intoxicated last night and obviously made a huge mistake. If you could please exit stage right.

I almost laughed.

Dean. I was sure we had exchanged names last night but that many shots in, the chance of details sticking weren’t good. I couldn’t remember walking up to him, couldn’t remember what I’d said or if I’d managed to embarrass myself—

But I did remember seeing him when I came in. I’d only been back in Chicago for a week. New job, new town, and apparently, newfound drunk confidence. One drink, I’d said. I’ll go for one drink and then go home. It had been years since I’d seen Joey and, though my tolerance to alcohol had certainly gotten better since we’d last lived near each other, my brother’s tolerance still seemed to be better than mine. One drink turned into two and by the third, he had walked in. Having been in the closet for the majority of my life in Chicago, my brother was a bit over encouraging when he saw I liked anyone now. I didn’t have to like it, but three more shots in— the fact that I wasn’t throwing up everywhere had to be good enough.

I really hoped I didn’t throw up.

Despite starting a new firm on Monday, I would have to avoid Friday nights out with Joey until the embarrassment of Dean kicking me out faded.

I never went home with strangers back in Boston. Then again, I’d never met anyone as enthralling as Dean back in Boston.

My shirt was missing. Probably thrown off somewhere between the front door and the bed. If Dean looked half as good last night as he did when we woke up—again, that thrill down my spine like a shiver—I wouldn’t be surprised if I threw my shirt off the second he looked at me. I was either going to have to leave the room bare chested or wear one of Dean’s.

My stomach flipped uncomfortably, though it had nothing to do with the hangover brewing in me. My experience with one-night stands was only marginally better than my experience with actual relationships. I was sure that Dean would be no exception.

Of course, Dean was exceptional. Though I couldn’t remember the previous night, there was no doubt in my mind that he deserved the label. Waking up to a man with wide amber eyes, bow-shaped red lips, and a sheepish expression—there was no doubt in my mind that he was someone special.

Clad only in jeans and socks, I ran a hand through my hair, trying to smooth the mess down. There was no mirror in the bedroom but I imagined I looked frighteningly bad—wild hair standing up, shirtless, a half-grown beard itching my skin. I crossed my arms, then let them fall down to my sides.

I sighed. This was as good as it was going to get.

I followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen, freezing in the doorframe.

Dean, despite having to have drank at least as much as I had the previous night, looked wonderful with a coffee cup in one hand and a spatula in the other. My head hurt thinking about how good he’d probably look if he hadn’t spent the majority of the last twelve hours severely dehydrated.

Now that I was nearly in the room, the smell of pancakes was strong enough to reach me. Dean, humming low to himself, flipped a golden brown circle onto a plate next to the stove. I wanted to wait, and drink in my fill of his incredible silhouette, before he reminded me to get on my way. But my stomach growled, announcing my presence. I jumped when Dean turned to look at me.

As it had when we first woke up, the slopes of his shoulders distracted me immediately. How the man could have such broad, smooth shoulders and not be a model baffled me. With a start, I realized that I knew nothing about him at all.

A burst of adrenaline shot up my spine, shaking me. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re a model? ”

One of Dean’s eyebrows quirked high. His lips twitched, pulling into a half-smirk before he replied, “No. Do you drink coffee?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t help the sigh that fell out. I wasn’t sure which one was more relieving—that Dean, at least professionally, was a normal person, or that coffee was in my immediate reach. I took the mug Dean held out, thankfully filled to the brim.

“Do you want sugar or milk? I probably have milk. Or something milk like.”

I was already drinking but pulled back to frown. “What could possibly be milk like but not actually be milk?”

Dean shrugged and flipped a pancake. “I’m not sure. Feel free to take a look.” He pointed towards the fridge.

I drank another long pull from the mug. “I take it black,” I said.

He looked up and gave me a quick smile before his attention went back to the stove. “Me, too.”

It was a silly thing to get excited about. Most of the people I knew drank black coffee—it was hardly a sign of anything more. It was barely a thing to say we had in common.

Still, my stomach flipped again. Heat rushed up my neck to stain my cheeks red.

“Well,” Dean said and cleared his throat. The tops of his shoulders and tips of his ears were red. I grinned and tried to hide it behind the coffee mug. “Shall we eat?”

My stomach gurgled again. I looked up at the ceiling. God, I prayed, please stop embarrassing me.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

Dean shrugged again and grabbed the plate of pancakes, turning the stove off with his other hand. I refilled both mugs, and then followed him to the kitchen table. He had already set it up with plates and silverware, two glasses and a jug of orange juice.

My throat was tight, my hands shaking just a little as I carefully sat the coffee down. I felt as nervous as I had when I saw him at the bar the night before.

I sat down. The fact that neither of us were wearing shirts seemed to be lost on Dean, though it took every bit of my self-control to keep my eyes on his face.

A large, dark bruise, tinged red rather than blue, stood out on the underside of his collarbone. My mouth dried.

“Thank you,” I said.

Dean’s eyes snapped to mine, and he smiled. It was a broad, open thing—easy and happy. He had a nice smile—the kind that didn’t look like it came with anything attached. He didn’t think before he grinned. His teeth were bright and white, and he lifted his coffee mug, tilting it toward me for a moment. “No problem.”

I poured the orange juice into both of empty glasses as Dean piled half the pancakes on my plate, sliding the other half toward his. It was a lot more food than necessary, but the idea of sopping up any of the alcohol left in my stomach, in addition to the copious amounts of syrup he poured on them, had me eating quickly.

I finished half my plate before realizing. I froze at the way he sat back, unabashedly watching me, his amusement clear.

I ducked my head. “I apologize,” I said, setting my fork down. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

Dean shook his head, still grinning. “No, no, man. Please. Compliments to the cook and all.”

My lips twitched. “They are very good,” I said, picking my fork back up. “The syrup is wonderful.”

It was thinner than the syrup I had at home—a general, store brand maple one—and had a hint of honey to it that tasted sweet enough that I contemplated asking for the brand. My brother had a bigger sweet tooth than even I did; he would love it.

Surprisingly, Dean’s eyes widened, and he focused on the pancakes in front of him. Spearing a large piece, with his face a lovely shade of red, he admitted, “I make it myself. It’s—an old recipe.”

My chest fluttered, nearly painful in the way it twisted. He shoved the pancake in his mouth and it should not have been even remotely endearing.

“I—appreciate you making it for me.”

He shrugged one shoulder, but his smile turned from big and embarrassed to small and sweet. His cheeks were pink from the leftover blush and he ate slowly, gaze flicking to me and back down to his plate.

I finished my food and leaned back in my chair, holding the coffee mug in between my hands and watching Dean.

The coffee was still warm, a benefit of bolting my breakfast. I sipped it and tried not to look gleeful as I drank in Dean’s appearance.

Still shirtless, his shoulders sloped to strong arms with thick bands of muscle. I wondered if his strength came from the daily toils of a manual profession. The tops of his shoulders were decorated with freckles, dark and sprinkled across his tanned skin. A few freckles dusted the bridge of his nose and near his hairline, too. His jaw was sharp and the darkest, longest lashes I had ever seen on a man framed his eyes.

He was positively breathtaking.

Dean set his fork down and picked up his orange juice. I watched a little helplessly at the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Dean grinned wickedly, his lips parting to speak when a phone rang from the other room.

We both jumped. My knees slammed into the table as Dean cursed under his breath. He looked at me, hard, his lips pursed, and held up a finger. “Hold that thought.”

He went to the living room and answered the phone. His muffled voice was a nice white noise as I tried desperately to still my body’s reaction to the look Dean had given me.

I put the coffee down and drank the juice. It quelled the dryness of my mouth and a little of the heat in my stomach.

I shot up in the chair when Dean came back in. The lines of a frown pulled down on his face, and his jaw locked—it was furiously attractive and I nearly glared at him for it. He held a cellphone in one hand and my shirt in his other.

“I found this behind the couch,” he said, the frown smoothing out as his lips quirked in a smile. I grabbed it and slid it over my head.

My shoulders fell once I was covered; I hadn’t realized how tightly I was holding myself when exposed. I offered a smile. He was only a few feet away, close enough that I had to crane my neck up to see him. He looked even better from this angle.

“Thank you,” I said. My voice sounded gravely to my own ears and I cleared my throat.

He cocked his head. His eyes looked heavy. “Any time,” his voice sounded low, too.

I contemplated what it would be like to reach out, fist my hands into the material of his low-slung pajama bottoms and tug him towards me—what the sound of his gasp would feel like against me, what it would taste like, what—

“That was the office,” he said, rolling his head up towards the ceiling. He sighed heavily. “I have to deal with something at work.”

A shot of rejection pulsed through me. Though the disappointment felt heavy, like a brick in my stomach, I ignored it—it was silly to feel rejected. I hadn’t even put myself out there, merely thought about it. When Dean looked back down at me, he looked as regretful as I felt.

I cleared my throat again and stood up—before nearly swaying back and falling down. I hadn’t realized how close he’d been standing until we were nearly nose to nose. His hand shot out and grabbed my bicep, steading me. The breath punched out of me. His hand slid down, slow, and closed around my wrist. The contact burned my skin like lightening and fired my blood.

“I should leave you to it,” I said. It took all my self-control I to keep my eyes locked on his rather than falling to his lips.

He swallowed, just this side of audibly. “Yeah.”

The quiet was as tangible as the air in the small space between us.

His eyes dropped to my lips, which tingled from the sensation of his gaze. Before I could react, he pulled back and crossed to the other side of the room. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging.

“I—I’ll go,” I said, fleeing from the room. I grabbed my things as quickly as possible, shoving my feet into my shoes while Dean’s gaze felt sharp and physical like a graze of his hand.

I tumbled out the door with another hasty goodbye and made it down the stairs before the adrenaline seeped out of my body. I leaned against the door, wincing when my head slammed a into it.

I forgot to get his number.