The anger fuels the kiss.

It’s fast and furious. A total war of lips and teeth and tongue.

I grab his shirt too tightly, and he tugs my hair too harshly. I nip his lip; he bites mine harder.

It’s the hottest fucking thing. Ever.

And in the middle of my work parking lot.

The fucks I give total zero.

“Women,” he mutters against my tender lips. “Always overreactin’.”

“I swear to God—”

“I want more with you,” he growls. “Even if it means we threaten to kill each other ten times a day and argue fifty. That’s your definition of love. Hate so passionate it’s real and tangible. And sweet shit, Noelle, I hate the fuck outta you more often than I think I even like you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, asshole.”

“Think about it. I don’t want a pushover. I want someone who’ll challenge me on something as bullshit as how many sugars go in a coffee.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Savage.”

“Says you.”

“This is so dumb.”

Drake laughs, his hold on my hair changing from rough to gentle as he threads his fingers through it. My blood is still pounding, my chest still heaving, and my thoughts are so erratic that not even my heart can’t keep up.

“Incredibly dumb,” he agrees, his mouth hovering over mine. “Seriously. Think about it. I don’t want a fuckin’ damsel in distress. I want you.”

I run my teeth over my bottom lip and release it quickly. “Fine. I’ll think about it. More. As long as you answer all my questions about the stalker boyfriend.”

He clicks his tongue. “Always a catch, ain’t there?”

“Yep, and I’m only up to number three, so you’ve got another nineteen until catch twenty-two.”

“Your attitude stinks.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Like a field full of roses.” I grin and extract myself from his arms. “Sweet and tempting—”

“And hiding a shit-ton of thorns.”

“Oh, honey, I couldn’t hide you even if I tried.”

He pauses, grimaces, and punches the air. “Got nothin’.”

“Yes!” I laugh, skipping toward the front door. “This is going down as one of my proudest moments: making you lost for words.”

His grimace becomes a half smile right before I turn and push the door open. Our eyes connect briefly before my name is screamed by my apparently very angry receptionist.

“You aren’t supposed to be here!”

“Oh, hush. Did Natalie bring in the contract and report?”

“The retainer check is locked in your desk.” Bek steps out of the kitchen with a coffee mug in hand. “Are you here in the middle of your date?” She glances over my shoulder. “Please tell me this isn’t the middle of your date.”

Drake sidesteps past me, his hands up. “We made it out of the range without her shootin’ me. I wasn’t gonna risk it.”

I whack his arm with the contract Grecia handed me. Son of a bitch. He disappears into the kitchen, laughing, and I pull the police report out of the envelope.

“So.” Bek grins, sidling up with me with an innocent look over her face. Except her grin, of course. That’s as devilish as her thoughts will be. “The range, huh?”

“Yep.” I smack my lips together and flick through the report. Devin took it. Good.

“Kissing?”

“Outside,” Grecia answers, filing the nail on her ring finger. “It was like watchin’ a soap opera. She stormed off all pissed and he grabbed her and, oh.” She finishes on a sigh.

I snap my fingers. “Hello? My life isn’t a romance novel. There are too many guns and cheating fuckers for that. Go back to your book.”

Grecia rolls her eyes.

“So, are you a thing now?” Bek perches on the edge of Grecia’s desk.

“A thing? What is a thing?”

“Don’t be a bitch. Are you seeing each other?”

“Only when we’re in immediate proximity.”

“Oh my God!”

“Jesus, Bek! It was one damn date!” I sigh, holding the papers up. “One. Date. Not a fucking marriage proposal.”

“But are you a thing? Will there be a second date? Have you even finished the first?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, and no, he owes me a cupcake.”

“Obviously,” she mutters. “You know, I don’t even care if you’re a thing. I’m calling you Droelle anyway.”

I freeze. “Did you just give us a ship name?”

“Well, yeah. You’re like Shamy, except he’s not as mantis-y as Sheldon, and you’re way hotter than Amy.”

“You gave us a ship name.”

“Who did what?” Drake walks out of the kitchen with a coffee in a takeout cup.

“Did you make a coffee in my kitchen and not get me one?” I ask him, staring between him and the offending cup.

“I gave you a ship name,” Bek says. “You’re now known as Droelle.”

“Aw, hell.” I look at my best friend. “Droelle is like fetch. Never gonna happen!”

Drake frowns. “The name or the relationship?”

“Put me on the spot, why don’t you?”

“I don’t know the answer, either,” he points out, tilting the cup my way.

I grab it and sip. Holy shit, hot. Hot. Hot.

“Droelle is so gonna happen,” Bek insists, getting up. “I might put it on a T-shirt.”

“Why would you do that? What’s wrong with you? Holy shit, I need a cupcake before my sugar-deprived brain shrivels up,” I moan, walking toward the door.

“I ship Droelle!” Bek yells as I stomp through it, Drake’s coffee still tight in my hand.

“I don’t blame her,” Drake adds. “Droelle is one of the better ship names. Could be Kimye.”

“How do you even know anything about that?” I ask, stopping at his truck. “You know—no. I know the answer. The same way my brothers do, presumably.”

His answering grin is infectious and reminiscent of the teenage Drake I find myself remembering. So, by the time I was thirteen, he was leaving Holly Woods to begin his cop training, but he was sweet then. The whole time. Just not to me. Mind you, I wasn’t exactly sugar sweet to him, either.

I guess, though, back then, he was simply my older brother’s mean friend who played football and soccer and baseball with him.

Insanity is being on a date with a man you’ve hated as long as you can remember and hoping that there will be a second, despite your reservations.

Our drive to Rosie’s is quick, and I wait in the car while he gets out and enters the café. I know. I’m letting him buy me my cupcake. He’ll probably come out with a joke sperm-flavored one or something, one he’s planned out specifically. Or maybe he’ll try…

And bring me one with bright-yellow frosting and a chewy lemon candy on the top. Complete with chocolate sprinkles.

It has to be hot in this car, because I think I’m melting.

“I’m impressed,” I admit, taking the box from him.

Next to my lemon one is a triple-chocolate torte one, the rich frosting swirled into a perfect point, white chocolate chips buried within the dark depths of gooey chocolate.

Looks like we’re cutting the cupcakes in half.

“Eyes off my cupcake,” he demands, starting the engine again. “If you want a triple torte one, you should start hiding those in your desk drawer instead of lemon ones.”

I open my mouth then… Fuck him. “I really hate it when you get stuff right, you know that?”

“I know, sweetheart. It’s why I make a point of being right.”

“Your house is closer to Rosie’s,” I point out, putting the coffee in the center console.

“I know, but since you don’t have your car and there’s cupcake frosting, I might never let you leave.”

That chocolate frosting being dotted down my stomach to my pussy with his tongue licking it all up doesn’t sound half bad. Neither does being stuck in that situation.

“Noelle.”

That sharp, husky tone—it’s not even a threat or a warning. It’s a promise, pure and simple. When he says my name in way so controlled, with so much growly depth to it, I know I’m ten seconds from trouble.

“Sorry.” I look out the window so there’s no way he can tell what I’m thinking. Or so I hope. The man has a damn sexual thought radar.

He pulls up behind my car in my driveway, and I hand him the cupcakes without looking. Hugging the envelope tight to my chest, I grab my purse and fish my keys out.