“You look even better up close,” he drawls, that Midwestern accent curling around the words.
“Huh?”
“You’re the girl of my dreams,” Jared Beaumont says matter‑of‑factly.
That has to be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard. “You can’t be serious. Who has that line ever worked on?”
Only then do I really see him—tall, lean, and muscular, with short dark hair that frames his square jaw perfectly. His eyes—unusual, striking—kiwi‑green laced with honeydew, glowing like sunlight through glass. They warm his whole face. Or maybe it’s my face they’re warming. Crap. I’m blushing. His voice carries that easy Midwestern drawl, low and steady, like a song you can’t shake. A faint trace of sandalwood drifts from him, earthy and smooth, grounding against the cool air. The grip of his hand wh
