LS Phoenix's Blog

 🎃 The Masked Stranger | Chapter Five: No More Hiding

It's time for the Halloween finale of The Masked Stranger, part of the Wicked Little Treats collection!

Delaney has spent the night with a mysterious man who knows far more about her than he's willing to admit. The chemistry is undeniable, but there's still one question he refuses to answer.

Who is hiding behind that mask?

Tonight, the secrets finally come out, and Delaney discovers that sometimes the person you've been looking for has been right in front of you all along.

🔥 Expect a surprising reveal, plenty of chemistry, a little more spice, and a happily ever after!

Chapter Five

No More Hiding

Adrian

Delaney's still laughing when she settles against me, her cheek resting on my chest. I pull the throw over her shoulder and press a kiss to the top of her head.

I should probably be thinking about getting dressed. The party's still going on downstairs, and someone will eventually notice we've disappeared. Instead, I'm trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to tell Delaney Brooks that the man she's spent the evening with is the same guy who can barely string together two sentences around her.

I've wanted her for six months. Six months of watching her laugh with our friends, listening to her stories, and wishing I had the nerve to ask her out.

Tonight, I finally found that nerve. Unfortunately, it came with a mask.

"You're awfully quiet," she says.

"Just thinking."

"About how we nearly destroyed an expensive sofa?"

I laugh. "Among other things."

She props herself up on one elbow, studying me. "Can I ask you something?"

"I have a feeling you're going to, regardless."

"Look at you. Getting brave." She grins, then reaches toward my mask. "Why won't you tell me who you are?"

I catch her hand gently before she can lift it. Her smile fades. "Seriously?"

I release her wrist. "I'm sorry."

"Are you married?"

"What? No, I already told you that."

"Engaged? Secret girlfriend? Complicated situationship?"

"I'm single, Delaney."

"Then what's the problem?"

I look at her, knowing I've run out of excuses. "You already know me."

She sits up, pulling the throw around herself. "What?"

"We've met before. Several times, actually."

Her eyes narrow. "Are we friends?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?" She laughs. "That's not reassuring."

I sit up beside her, suddenly wishing I'd put my shirt back on. "I didn't plan for tonight to go this far," I admit. "I wanted to talk to you without getting nervous and making an idiot of myself. Then you kissed me, and I didn't want it to end."

"You asked to kiss me."

"After you spent half the evening flirting with me."

"Okay, valid point." She studies me. "So who are you?"

I take a breath and reach for my mask. "Whatever happens, I need you to know tonight wasn't a game to me."

"Okay."

"And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"Then stop apologizing and take off the damn mask."

I take a breath, hoping I'm not about to ruin everything, and slowly pull it off.

Delaney stares at me.

Her mouth falls open. "Oh my God."

"Hi, Delaney."

"Adrian?" She blinks, looking me over as though she's trying to reconcile the man sitting in front of her with the one she's known for months. "Adrian Blackwell?"

"Surprise?"

"Natalie's quiet friend Adrian? The guy who barely talks at game night?"

"Sometimes I talk."

"About the weather!"

"Occasionally sports."

She covers her mouth, but I can see the smile forming behind her hand. Then it disappears. "Wait. You knew who I was this entire time?"

"Yes."

"And you let me spend all night trying to figure it out?"

I nod. "I should've told you."

"Before we came upstairs, Adrian."

"I know. You're right."

She looks away, and I hate that I've put that expression on her face.

"I wanted you to like me," I admit. "Not the guy who stands in the corner at parties because he never knows what to say. Just me, without all the awkwardness."

She looks back at me. "Which one is the real you?"

"Both." I set the mask on the table. "I'm quiet around people I don't know well. But when I'm comfortable with someone, I'm different."

"And you're comfortable with me?"

"More than anyone."

Her expression softens. "Then why have you spent six months barely talking to me?"

I blink. "How did you know it was six months?"

"Adrian." She gives me a look. "I've been trying to get you to ask me out since Natalie's birthday dinner."

I stare at her. "You have?"

"Yes!"

"I thought you were just being friendly."

"I was flirting, you oblivious man!"

I start laughing, mostly because I can't believe we've both been this ridiculous.

She shakes her head, but she's smiling now. "You're kind of an idiot."

"I've been called worse."

"By me?"

"Not yet."

She laughs and moves closer. "I'm still annoyed you didn't tell me."

"I understand."

"And we're going to talk about that again."

"Whenever you want."

She rests her hands against my chest. "But for the record, I happen to like quiet guys."

I smile.

"And apparently," she continues, "I really like whatever other personality you've been hiding."

"That's not another personality."

"No?" She raises an eyebrow. "Because the Adrian I know has never called me a good girl."

My face gets hot.

Her mouth falls open. "Oh my God. You're blushing!"

"Delaney."

"This is adorable."

I groan, dropping my head.

She laughs and slips her arms around my neck. "Hey."

I look at her.

"Next time you want to kiss me, you can just ask."

I brush my thumb along her cheek. "Can I kiss you?"

She smiles. "Absolutely."

I kiss her without a mask between us, and somehow it feels more intimate than anything we've done tonight. Her hands slide into my hair, and she pulls me closer, smiling against my mouth.

When she finally draws back, her expression turns mischievous. "So, Adrian Blackwell."

"Yeah?"

"Does that confident guy from earlier make another appearance, or was he strictly a Halloween special?"

I laugh, my arms wrapping around her waist. "He's still here."

"Good." She kisses me again. "Because I wasn't finished with him."

I brush my lips against hers.

"Neither was I."

She doesn't go back to kissing me. She goes lower. Down my chest, unhurried, mouth warm against my sternum, then my stomach, and I have to look at the ceiling and remind myself how breathing works. Her hair drags across my ribs. Her hand finds my cock.

"You're going to have to tell me if—"

"Adrian." She looks up. "Stop narrating."

"Right."

My brain goes offline for a second. Then her mouth replaces her hand. The noise I make next is not one I've ever made in front of another person before. She's good at this in an almost rude way. She knows it, too. Takes her time, hums a little, and glances up to watch what it's doing to me. I get a hand in her hair, and she makes an approving sound around me, and my hips lift off the cushion.

"Delaney."

She pulls off just enough to talk. "Yeah?"

"Come here."

"Already?"

"I'm going to be no use in about thirty seconds."

She laughs and sits back up, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and I'm struck all over again by the fact that this is the woman who's been sitting three feet away from me at game nights for six months.

"Was there another one?" she asks.

"Another what?"

"Condom."

"Right. Yes. In my pants."

She finds the wallet, shakes her head at me, and rolls it on herself, which is somehow more mortifying and better than doing it myself. Then she plants a knee on the sofa either side of my hips and looks down at me.

"Comfortable?"

"Terrified."

"That's not a no."

She sinks down onto me, and I stop being able to form sentences. It's slower than before and deeper, and she does it in stages, watching my face the whole time. By the time she's all the way seated, my hands are on her hips like she's the only solid thing in the room.

"Okay?" she asks, a bit breathless herself.

"Yeah."

"Good." She starts to move. "Because I've thought about this."

"You have?"

"Mm. At game night. While you were losing at cards."

"I'm always losing at cards."

"Because you're watching me instead of your hand."

She's right, and she knows she's right. I slide my hand up her spine and pull her down so I can kiss her, and it changes the angle. She groans into my mouth and stops being smug.

She's in charge for a while, and she's good at it. Her hand braced on the back of the sofa, setting the pace, hair falling in her face. And I get to watch all of it. Her mouth open. The flush climbing her throat. The way she keeps looking at me like she's checking to make sure  I'm still there.

"Adrian—"

"Yeah."

"Don't get quiet on me now."

So I don't. I tell her she's beautiful, and that she's going to be the death of me, and a couple of things I'd be embarrassed about if she weren't currently proving she wants them. Her rhythm goes uneven.

"That's better," she says, ragged.

Then her knee slips on the cushion and she laughs and loses the whole rhythm, and we have to stop, and I catch her before she falls and she drops her forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.

"Don't laugh," she says.

"I'm not laughing."

"You're shaking."

"That's the laughing."

She kisses me, still grinning, and moves again. My cock goes deeper at this angle, and the grin comes off her face.

Something in me tips over.

I get both hands on her hips and take over the rhythm. Pushing and pulling her body back and forth on top of me, finding just the right angle that makes her breath catch. It works for both of us; her hands brace on my chest, her hair brushing my skin. I can feel how close she is and how hard she's trying to hold it.

"Don't," I say. "Don't hold it."

Her head drops.

"Come for me." My voice comes out rougher than I've ever heard it. "That's it — good girl."

She does. Her whole body tightens, and she says my name like it's been dragged out of her. And it's the best thing that's happened to me in six months. I keep moving us through it right up until I can't.

Then it's just her hips and my hands and no rhythm at all. I come with my head tipped back and her name in my mouth.

She collapses onto my chest. I get my arms around her before she can slide off, and we lie there like that, both of us wrecked, her heart going against mine.

By the time we finally get dressed, the party downstairs has started winding down.

Delaney finds her heels beneath the sofa while I retrieve my tie from the floor. She watches me button my shirt, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Delaney."

"I'm just thinking."

"About?"

"How many game nights I've wasted sitting across from you when we could've been doing something considerably more interesting."

I laugh. "You could've asked me out."

"I could've. But watching you turn red every time I talked to you was entertaining."

"You're terrible."

"You like me."

"Unfortunately."

She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. "Unfortunately?"

I pull her close and kiss her. "Very unfortunately."

She laughs against my mouth before reaching past me for the mask on the table. "You're keeping this, right?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Should I?"

She slips it into my jacket pocket. "Absolutely."

"Any particular reason?"

She smiles. "Because now that I know who's behind it, I might want you to wear it again."

I shake my head, laughing. "You're impossible."

"And yet you've been crushing on me for six months."

"Longest six months of my life."

After we’re dressed, she takes my hand and heads for the door. "Come on, mystery man. You've got a proper date to plan."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." She glances over her shoulder, smiling. "But tonight's not over yet."

For once, I don't have to wonder whether she's flirting with me.

And I definitely don't need a mask to know what to do about it.

The End

🎃 The Masked Stranger | Chapter Four: Behind Closed Doors

Things are getting considerably hotter in Chapter Four of The Masked Stranger, part of the Wicked Little Treats Halloween Collection!

Delaney has stopped trying to figure out who's behind the mask, at least for tonight. Alone with her mysterious stranger, she's discovering that his confidence extends far beyond the dance floor.

But even as the clothes come off, the mask stays firmly in place. And while Delaney might be willing to surrender to temptation, there's still one thing she isn't getting: his name.

Chapter Four

Behind Closed Doors

Delaney

The sofa is too narrow for this, but neither of us cares.

His hand slides from my shoulder down my arm, unhurried, the way he does everything. Like he's got all night and intends to use it. My dress has a side zipper, and he finds it without looking, thumb hooking the tab before he stops.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"You've really got to stop asking that."

"I'll take that as a no."

"That's a hell no, actually."

The zipper goes down. Cool air hits my ribs, then his mouth does, and whatever clever thing I was going to say next dissolves somewhere around my collarbone.

Here's the thing about a mask: it takes away his face and makes everything else more noticeable. The line of his jaw. The way his throat moves when he swallows. How the dark fabric shifts when he leans down, exposing a strip of skin and the faint scent of whatever cologne he's wearing.

I hook a heel around the back of his calf and pull. He comes willingly, bracing a forearm beside my head, and the weight of him settling over me is the first thing all night that shuts me up completely.

Not for long, obviously.

"Careful," I manage. "We're going to break something."

"I'll be gentle."

"See, when you say things like that..."

He kisses the hollow beneath my ear, and my sentence dies. He does it again, lower this time. He's annoyingly thorough, and by the time he's worked the dress down past my hips, I've gone from running my mouth to gripping the back of the sofa like it owes me money.

"Okay," I breathe. "Okay, that's... you can keep doing that."

"Was that a compliment?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

He laughs against my stomach, and I feel the vibration of it.

The dress ends up somewhere on the floor. My heels go next, one, then the other, and he takes his time with it in a way that suggests he's enjoying my patience running out. He loosens his tie, pulling it free before unbuttoning his shirt and tossing both aside. His mask, however, stays firmly in place, which is somehow the most fascinating and infuriating thing about him.

"You know this is ridiculous," I tell him, running my hands over his bare chest.

"What is?"

"I'm about to sleep with a man I couldn't pick out of a lineup."

"Then it’ll have to be memorable."

He reaches past me, pulls the throw off the back of the sofa, and waits.

"Same rule," he says quietly. "Any time."

I answer by pulling him down. It's slow and unexpected. He's careful in a way that feels like restraint rather than hesitation, and there's a moment when his forehead rests against mine, and he simply breathes. The tenderness of it catches me off guard, especially when I consider how little we actually know about each other.

The rest of the world might as well not exist. The fire crackles nearby, music drifts faintly from downstairs, and his fingers lace through mine against the cushions. Whatever happens between us tonight, I already know I'm going to remember it.

"Tell me what you want," he says against my mouth.

"I thought we covered that."

"Not the version you say when you're being funny."

I open my eyes. He's braced above me, mask in place, chest rising harder than it was a minute ago, and there's nothing teasing left in his voice at all.

"You first," I say.

"All right." His thumb drags down my sternum, unhurried, watching it. "I want to get you out of the rest of this. I want my mouth on you until you stop being clever. And then I want to be inside you, and I want to hear what that sounds like."

My brain produces approximately nothing.

"Well," I manage. "When you put it like that."

He smiles and gets to work.

The bra goes first, and he doesn't rush it. He gets it off, tosses it, and then just looks at me, which is its own kind of unbearable. His palm covers my ribs, thumb sweeping once, and then his mouth follows the same path, and I arch off the cushion.

"God—"

"Mm." He's smug about it. He has every right to be.

He works his way down with the same methodical patience he's done everything with all night, and by the time he's got a hand hooked under my knee, pushing it wide, I've given up on dignity entirely.

"There are a hundred people downstairs," he says against the inside of my thigh.

"Great. Fantastic. Thanks for the update."

"So you'll want to be quiet."

"I can be quiet."

"Can you?"

He proves his point. Thoroughly. Two fingers, then his mouth, and I get a fistful of the throw and make a noise that is definitely not quiet, and he hums against me like he's pleased, which only makes it worse.

"Delaney."

"What?"

"You're terrible at this."

"I'd like to see you— oh." My hips jerk. "Do that again."

"Yes ma'am."

He does it again. And again. He keeps up a running commentary in that low, level voice, telling me how I taste, how he's been thinking about this, how he could do it all night and might. I say something that's mostly consonants. He laughs, and the laugh is worse than the fingers.

"Look at me," he says.

I do. The mask is the last thing in the room I want to look at and the only thing I can.

"Good girl."

I actually feel it land somewhere behind my ribs. Then he curls his fingers, and I stop feeling anything else.

He gives me about eight seconds before his hands are on my hips, sliding me down the cushions, working the throw out from under me. His belt comes undone, and I hear the zip, and then he pauses.

"Wallet," he says. "Chair. Left side."

"You're telling me to fetch?"

"You're closer."

I make a show of sighing before reaching for his pants draped over the chair beside us. I find his wallet, pull out the condom, and hand it to him with a raised eyebrow.

"Always prepared, aren't you?"

"Never hurts to be optimistic."

He hooks an arm under my lower back and lifts, settling me against him so we're both propped against the arm of the sofa. His mouth is at my ear.

"Now," he says. "Tell me if it's too much."

"I will."

"Say it."

"I'll tell you," I say. "Just… go."

He goes slow. His hand slides up between my shoulder blades, holding me steady, and there's a long moment where he's just filling me and breathing against my jaw and neither of us says anything at all.

Then he moves, and the mask is right there next to my cheek, and I can hear his breath go ragged.

"Oh," he says, like it's been knocked out of him.

"Bit more than oh," I manage.

"I was going to say something clever."

"Try."

He tries, but whatever clever response he comes up with doesn't last long. He tells me to relax against him, his voice growing rougher as he repeats my name. Eventually, he gives up trying to form complete sentences, and I can't blame him. Whatever restraint he had earlier is slipping, and the intensity between us is nothing like I expected from the mysterious man who approached me on the dance floor.

"Harder," I get out.

He groans. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He does it harder. The sofa creaks under us like it's complaining. His mouth finds the side of my throat and stays there, and his free hand slides down to where we're joined, and that's it, that's the end of me. I say something that might be his name and isn't, because I don't have one, and he notices.

"You don't know what to call me," he says, wrecked.

"Shut up."

"Say it anyway."

"Make me."

He does, twice more, until I'm arching against him and swearing into his shoulder. Everything around us fades away except the warmth of the fire and the sound of his voice. I cling to him as the pleasure finally overwhelms me, leaving me breathless.

He follows soon after, his teeth grazing my collarbone as he lets out a quiet, completely undignified sound. There's something about hearing him lose control for once that makes me smile. I think it might be my favorite moment of the entire night.

Then he sags. His weight comes down, his forehead lands on my shoulder, and his hand finds mine on the cushion again and stays there. Neither of us speaks for a minute.

"You were right," he says eventually, muffled.

"About what?"

"We almost broke something."

I laugh, which jostles him, and he groans. "That was the sofa, not me."

"Sure it was."

One More to Come!

🎃 The Masked Stranger | Chapter Three: No More Games

The mystery is heating up in Chapter Three of The Masked Stranger, part of the Wicked Little Treats Halloween Collection!

Delaney knows her masked stranger is hiding something, but the more time she spends with him, the harder it becomes to care. Their chemistry is impossible to ignore, and when the flirting moves from the crowded ballroom to a private room upstairs, she's ready to stop asking questions and start enjoying herself.

But the man behind the mask isn't the only one keeping secrets. He's showing Delaney a side of himself she never expected, and she's about to discover just how tempting a little mystery can be.

🔥 The masks are staying on, but the rules are about to change.

Chapter Three

No More Games

Delaney

I'm officially losing my mind. That's the only reasonable explanation for why I'm standing on a terrace in the middle of October, kissing a man whose name I don't know, while wearing his jacket and a pair of heels that should qualify as torture devices.

And the worst part? I don't particularly care.

His hand settles against my lower back as I press closer, and he responds by deepening the kiss. There's nothing hesitant about the way he touches me now. Whatever uncertainty I heard in his voice a few minutes ago has disappeared, replaced by a confidence that makes me wonder what else he's been keeping to himself.

When we finally separate, his forehead rests against mine.

"You're making this very difficult," he says.

"Making what difficult?"

"Behaving myself."

I smile, still holding on to his jacket. "Who asked you to behave?"

He lifts his head, and even behind the mask, I can see the change in his expression. His gaze moves over my face before settling on my mouth.

"Careful what you wish for, Delaney."

There's something about hearing him say my name that makes the entire situation feel more intimate. And a little more suspicious, considering I still haven't figured out how he knows it.

"You know, most men buy me dinner before they start issuing warnings."

"Would you like dinner?"

"Right now?"

"If that's what you want."

I laugh. "You're taking all the fun out of being difficult."

"Somehow, I doubt that's possible."

He's getting entirely too good at handling my sarcasm. Most men either get offended or try to outdo me. This one seems perfectly content to let me run my mouth until he decides to say something that leaves me speechless.

It's becoming a problem.

"So, what happens now?" I ask.

"That depends on you."

"You're giving me control?"

"For the moment."

I lift an eyebrow. "For the moment?"

His smile is slow and entirely too pleased with itself. "You seem to enjoy having the last word."

"I usually do."

"Then I'll let you have it."

"How generous."

He laughs, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my cheek. It's such a gentle gesture compared to the way he was kissing me that I find myself studying him again.

There's something familiar about him. Not just his voice or the way he moves, but the little things. The way he listens instead of rushing to fill every silence. How he seems to consider his answers before speaking. Even the way he smiles when I say something ridiculous.

I know him. I'm almost certain of it.

But every time I try to picture someone from my life beneath that mask, I come up empty.

"You're doing it again," he says.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to figure me out."

"Can you blame me? You know my name, but you won't tell me yours. For all I know, you could be my dentist."

"Would that be a problem?"

"Considering my dentist is sixty-three and married, yes."

He laughs, and I grin at the sound. "Well, you can cross him off your list."

"Wonderful. Only about eight billion possibilities left."

He takes my hand, running his thumb across my knuckles. "You don't have to stay, Delaney. If not knowing makes you uncomfortable, I'll understand."

I appreciate that he says it without trying to convince me to ignore my instincts. But the truth is, I'm not uncomfortable. Curious? Absolutely. A little nervous? Maybe. Mostly, though, I'm enjoying myself more than I have in a long time.

"I want to stay," I tell him. "But I reserve the right to interrogate you later."

"Fair enough."

"And eventually, you're taking off that mask."

"Eventually."

I step closer and straighten his collar, even though there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. "Good. Now that we've established that, I have another question."

"Of course you do."

"Is there somewhere we can go that doesn't involve freezing to death?"

He glances toward the ballroom. "We could go back inside."

"That's not exactly what I had in mind."

His attention returns to me, and the silence stretches long enough that I start wondering whether I've been too forward. Then he asks, "Are you sure?"

I nod. "I'm sure."

"There's a private sitting room upstairs. We can talk without an audience."

"Talk?" I repeat, giving him a pointed look.

His mouth curves. "Among other things."

"Now you're speaking my language."

He offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation. Inside, the ballroom is even louder than before. People are laughing, dancing, and taking pictures beneath the elaborate decorations. Somewhere in the crowd, Natalie is probably having the time of her life, completely unaware that her best friend is considering disappearing upstairs with a masked stranger. I pull out my phone and send her a quick message.

Me: Still alive. Having fun. Don't wait for me.

Her response comes almost immediately.

Natalie: WITH THE HOT MASKED GUY???

I laugh.

Me: Maybe.

Natalie: DELANEY BROOKS. DETAILS TOMORROW.

Me: If I survive.

Natalie: NOT FUNNY. Text me when you leave.

I send her a thumbs-up and tuck my phone away.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Just letting my friend know I haven't been kidnapped."

"Very responsible."

"I have my moments."

He leads me up a wide staircase toward the quieter second floor. The decorations continue up here, although they're less elaborate. A few flickering electric candles line the hallway, casting shadows across the dark wallpaper. It's the kind of setting where someone in a horror movie would make an incredibly stupid decision.

Apparently, tonight I'm that someone.

He stops outside a room at the end of the hall and opens the door, stepping aside so I can look inside before entering. The sitting room is beautiful, with a large fireplace, deep burgundy furniture, and tall windows overlooking the gardens. A small lamp glows beside one of the sofas, giving the room a warm, intimate atmosphere.

"Not bad," I say, walking inside.

"Glad you approve."

He closes the door but doesn't lock it. For some reason, that small detail makes me feel better about being here. I slip his jacket off my shoulders and drape it over the back of a chair before turning toward him.

He's standing a few feet away, watching me. 

"Are you going to stay over there all night?"

"Trying to be a gentleman."

"Again with the behaving." I shake my head. "You're really not getting the message."

He crosses the distance between us, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze. "Then tell me what you want."

I reach for the front of his shirt, curling my fingers into the fabric. "I want you to kiss me like you did outside."

"That's all?"

"For starters."

His hand settles against my waist, but he doesn't pull me closer. "Delaney, I need you to understand something."

"That sounds serious."

"It is." His voice drops. "I don't want you doing anything tonight because you think it's expected. If you want to stop, we stop. No questions."

I study him for a moment. Beneath the confidence and all that teasing, there's a sincerity I hadn't expected. "I know," I tell him. "And for the record, I'm here because I want to be."

"Good."

I smile. "Now, are you going to kiss me, or should I start looking for someone less concerned about his manners?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he slides one hand around my waist and draws me against him, his other hand settling at the back of my neck.

The kiss is immediate and intense, and I respond by wrapping my arms around his shoulders. He guides me backward until I feel the edge of the sofa against my legs, then pauses, giving me another opportunity to decide how far I want this to go.

I sit, pulling him down beside me.

For a while, we forget about the party downstairs. We kiss, laugh quietly when my mask gets in the way, and discover that the attraction between us is even harder to ignore without an audience.

At some point, he removes my mask and sets it on the table. His stays firmly in place.

"That's hardly fair," I tell him.

"I know."

"You owe me an explanation."

"I owe you several."

"At least you're aware."

His thumb traces my cheek as he looks at me, and for a moment, the playful expression disappears. "You're beautiful, Delaney."

It's the way he says it that catches me off guard. Not like a line he's practiced or a compliment he expects something in return for. He sounds almost surprised that he's finally allowed to say it.

I lean forward and kiss him again.

And when he draws me closer, I decide there are far worse ways to spend Halloween than making out with a man who refuses to tell me his name.

More to Come!

 🎃 The Masked Stranger | Chapter Two: The Man Beneath

The mystery continues in Chapter Two of *The Masked Stranger*, part of the *Wicked Little Treats* Halloween Collection!

Delaney's mysterious stranger has captured her attention, but he's hiding more than just his face. Behind the mask is a man who's wanted her for months, and tonight he's finally found the courage to show her a side of himself she's never seen.

As their attraction grows, keeping his identity a secret becomes harder, especially when one little slip threatens to give everything away.

🔥 A little mystery, a growing attraction, and a masked man with secrets worth uncovering.

Chapter Two

The Man Beneath

The Stranger

"Maybe."  It's a terrible answer, and judging by the way Delaney narrows her eyes, she knows it.

"Maybe we've met before?" she repeats, placing a hand on her hip. "That's suspiciously vague."

"Would you prefer I lie?"

"I'd prefer you answer the question."

I almost smile. There's the woman I know. Stubborn, quick with a comeback, and completely unwilling to let anyone get the last word. "I think you enjoy a little mystery."

"There's mystery, and then there's whatever this is." She gestures toward my mask. "For all I know, you're someone I went to high school with who had a massive glow-up."

"Would that disappoint you?"

"Depends. Were you nice to me in high school?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "You really don't give up, do you?"

"Not when someone is deliberately avoiding my questions."

She's right, of course. I'm avoiding every question that might give me away, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to remember why I thought this was a good idea.

When I first arrived tonight, I had every intention of keeping my distance. I'd planned to have a drink, make an appearance, and leave before anyone noticed I was gone. Then Delaney walked into the ballroom wearing that black dress, and every reasonable thought I'd had disappeared.

I've spent months convincing myself that wanting her doesn't mean I should do anything about it. We move in the same social circles, and she's always treated me with the same easy friendliness she gives everyone else. I've never mistaken that for an invitation.

Tonight, though, she looked at me differently. Not because I'd suddenly become someone else, but because she didn't know who she was looking at. 

And I'm selfish enough to want a little more of it.

"You're thinking awfully hard over there," she says, pulling me back to the present.

"Trying to decide whether you're always this demanding."

"Oh, sweetheart." She smiles, and the expression is pure trouble. "You haven't seen demanding."

I step closer, lowering my voice. "Careful. I might enjoy that."

Her smile falters for half a second before returning. "You really do have an answer for everything."

"Not everything."

"Like what?"

"Like why you're still standing here when you clearly think I'm trouble."

She glances down at the hand I've settled against her waist, then back up at me. "Maybe I like trouble."

That admission does something to me I don't care to examine too closely.

"Then we're going to get along just fine."

The music shifts into something louder, and a group of laughing guests pushes past us. Delaney moves closer to avoid being bumped, her palm landing against my chest. Her fingers spread over my jacket, and I have to resist the urge to cover her hand with mine and keep it there.

"Okay, mysterious stranger. Your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"To answer a question without dodging it."

"That sounds difficult."

"Try your best." She tilts her head. "Are you single?"

I hadn't expected that one. "Yes."

"Completely single? No girlfriend, fiancée, secret wife, or complicated situation waiting to ruin my evening?"

"Completely single."

"Good." She takes another sip of champagne, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

"Good?"

"Well, I'd hate to find out I kissed somebody's husband. That would really put a damper on my Halloween."

"You can stop worrying about that."

"Wonderful. One less thing to add to my list of potential regrets."

I take the champagne flute from her hand when she offers it, setting it on a nearby table beside my untouched drink. "How many regrets are on that list?"

"Currently? Two."

"Only two?"

"Give me time. The night's still young."

I laugh, and she studies me with an expression that makes me wonder whether I've given something away.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing. You just have a nice laugh."

It's such a simple compliment, but I can't remember the last time someone said something like that to me. Most people assume I'm serious because I don't talk much. They mistake quiet for disinterest, and I've never bothered correcting them.

Delaney has no idea how much effort it usually takes me to hold a conversation with her. Tonight, the words come easier. I don't have to worry about saying something stupid and then seeing her again next weekend while everyone pretends not to notice the awkwardness.

Except I will see her again. And eventually, she'll know.

The thought settles uncomfortably in my chest. "Come with me," I say.

She raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like the beginning of a very questionable decision."

"There's a terrace outside. It's quieter."

"Are you trying to get me alone?"

"Yes."

Her lips part slightly, and I enjoy the surprise on her face more than I should. "At least you're honest."

"About that, I am."

She considers me for a moment before slipping her hand into mine. "Fine. But if you turn out to be a murderer, I'm going to be incredibly annoyed."

"I'll keep that in mind," I chuckle.

We make our way through the ballroom toward a set of glass doors leading outside. The terrace overlooks an enormous garden decorated with glowing pumpkins and strands of orange lights. A few couples are scattered along the railing, but most of the guests have stayed inside where it's warm.

Delaney shivers when the cool October air hits her bare shoulders.

"Cold?" I ask.

"A little. Apparently, I chose looking good over being practical."

"You succeeded."

"At being impractical?"

"At looking good."

She laughs as I slip off my jacket and settle it around her shoulders. It's too large for her, the sleeves hanging well past her hands, but the sight of her wearing it makes me want things I have no business wanting.

"Thank you." She pulls the jacket closer. "See? You can be a gentleman."

"I never said I wasn't."

"No, but you've been giving off some very questionable vibes all evening."

"Questionable?"

"Dark, mysterious, possibly dangerous. You know, the usual Halloween dating-app nightmare."

I move beside her at the railing. "And yet you followed me outside."

"Against my better judgment."

"Your judgment seems perfectly fine to me."

She turns toward me, resting her hip against the stone railing. "You know what I think?"

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"I think you're hiding behind that mask because you're afraid I'll recognize you."

She's closer to the truth than she realizes. "And what happens if you do?"

"Depends on who you are."

"That's not much of an answer."

"Neither is maybe."

I smile despite myself. She notices and points a finger at me.

"There it is again. That smug little smile."

"You've been watching my mouth?"

Her gaze drops to it before she catches herself. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Too late."

She shakes her head, laughing, but there's a softness in her expression that wasn't there earlier. I wonder whether she'd look at me this way without the mask. Whether she'd stand this close or let me touch her the way I have tonight.

I want to find out. I'm also terrified of the answer.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

"Another interrogation?"

"A serious question this time."

I nod.

"Why me?"

The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"There are dozens of beautiful women in there. Why did you walk across the room to talk to me?"

I could give her an easy answer. Tell her I liked her dress or that she caught my eye. Both would be true, but neither would explain why I've spent months finding reasons to be wherever she happens to be.

"Because you make me want to be braver than I usually am."

Her expression changes. "That's surprisingly sweet."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

She smiles, but she doesn't look away. "I think there's a lot more to you than you're letting on."

"You have no idea."

"Then show me."

For a moment, neither of us moves. The music from inside drifts through the glass doors, and somewhere below us, people are laughing in the garden.

I reach for her hand, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She doesn't.

"Delaney."

She goes still.

I realize my mistake the second her name leaves my mouth. 

Her fingers tighten around mine. "I never told you my name."

"No," I admit quietly. "You didn't."

She studies me, her expression shifting from curiosity to something much more determined. "Who are you?"

I should tell her. I've had enough opportunities tonight, and every minute I wait makes the truth harder. But when she steps closer and places her free hand against my chest, I lose whatever sensible answer I was about to give.

"Take off the mask," she whispers.

I look down at her, at the woman I've wanted for so long, and know that once she sees my face, this night will change completely.

"I'm not ready for that."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid you'll stop looking at me the way you are right now."

Her expression softens, and for a second, I think she's going to insist. Instead, she slides her hand up to the back of my neck and pulls me closer. "Then don't take it off yet."

I barely have time to process her words before she kisses me.

And this time, there's nothing careful about it.

More to come!

 🎃 The Masked Stranger | A Spicy Halloween Short Story

Welcome to Wicked Little Treats, a collection of short, spicy Halloween romances!

Delaney Brooks expects only a fun night at a Halloween masquerade. But when a mysterious masked man catches her attention, a little harmless flirting turns into something much more tempting.

He's confident, commanding, and hiding more than just his face. Delaney doesn't realize the man behind the mask is someone she already knows.

Five chapters. One mysterious stranger. And a Halloween night she'll never forget.

🔥 A little mystery, a little darkness, and plenty of heat. Happy Halloween!🎃 The Masked Stranger | A Spicy Halloween Short Story

Welcome to Wicked Little Treats, a collection of short, spicy Halloween romances!

Delaney Brooks expects only a fun night at a Halloween masquerade. But when a mysterious masked man catches her attention, a little harmless flirting turns into something much more tempting.

He's confident, commanding, and hiding more than just his face. Delaney doesn't realize the man behind the mask is someone she already knows.

Five chapters. One mysterious stranger. And a Halloween night she'll never forget.

🔥 A little mystery, a little darkness, and plenty of heat. Happy Halloween!

The Masked Stranger

Chapter One: Behind the Mask

Delaney

There are two things I've learned about Halloween parties. The costumes are either ridiculously expensive or embarrassingly cheap, and there's always at least one guy who thinks dressing like a vampire permits him to bite strangers.

I've already encountered two of them tonight.

"Tell me again why I agreed to this?" I ask, adjusting the black lace mask covering the upper half of my face.

"Because you love me." My best friend, Natalie, grins as she hands me a glass of champagne. "And because you've spent the last three Friday nights watching true crime documentaries in your pajamas."

"Those documentaries are educational."

"Delaney, you ate an entire bag of Halloween candy while watching a six-part series about a serial killer."

"I was studying what not to do on a first date."

Natalie laughs, completely ignoring my glare.

The ballroom looks like something straight out of a gothic romance novel. Black chandeliers hang from the ceiling, purple lights illuminate the walls, and hundreds of candles flicker across tables covered in dark velvet. Everyone is wearing some variation of black, red, or gold, and the masks range from elegant to downright terrifying.

Apparently, when wealthy people throw Halloween parties, they don't mess around. I smooth my hands over my dress, a fitted black number with a neckline that's probably going to give my mother heart palpitations if she ever sees the pictures.

Natalie insisted I wear it. She also insisted I wear heels that are already making me question our friendship.

"Come on." She grabs my wrist. "Let's mingle."

"That's what people say right before something terrible happens."

"You're impossible," Natalie says, shaking her head.

"And yet, you keep inviting me places."

"Trust me, I'm starting to question my judgment."

We make our way toward the dance floor, where couples move beneath the dim lighting. Natalie immediately spots someone she knows and disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing alone with my champagne.

Typical.

I take a sip and glance around the room. That's when I notice him. He's standing near one of the tall windows on the opposite side of the ballroom, dressed entirely in black. His suit fits like it was made specifically for him, emphasizing broad shoulders and a narrow waist. A dark mask covers the upper half of his face, leaving a strong jaw and a mouth that looks entirely too tempting.

And he's looking directly at me.

At least, I think he is. It's hard to tell with the mask. I glance over my shoulder, wondering if there's someone behind me he's actually watching.

Nope.

Just a giant arrangement of black roses. When I turn back, he hasn't moved. 'Well, that's not intimidating at all.'

I raise my glass slightly, figuring a polite acknowledgment might convince him to stop staring. Instead, he tilts his head. Something about the movement sends a strange little thrill through me.

I should probably look away, but I don't.

He pushes off the wall and starts walking toward me. Oh. Okay, then. I suddenly become very interested in my champagne.

"Enjoying yourself?" His voice is deep, smooth, and just rough enough to make me look up. 

Up being the important word. He's tall. Easily six foot three, maybe more. And standing this close, I realize his shoulders are even broader than they looked from across the room.

"That depends," I answer.

"On?"

"Whether you're about to ask me to join a cult."

His mouth curves. "Would that be a deal breaker?"

"Depends on the benefits package."

He laughs, a low, quiet sound that makes me smile despite myself. "Good to know."

I study him over the rim of my glass. "Do you always approach strange women and stare at them like you're deciding where to bury the body?"

"Only the ones who catch my attention."

"And what exactly caught yours?"

His gaze travels over my face before settling on my mouth. "Everything."

Well. That's certainly an answer. I take another sip of champagne, mostly to give myself something to do.

"You're awfully confident for someone hiding behind a mask."

"Maybe the mask isn't what gives me confidence."

"Then what does?"

He steps closer, not enough to crowd me, but enough that I catch the faint scent of cedarwood and something darker. "Knowing what I want."

My pulse gives an annoying little jump. "And what do you want?"

His eyes remain fixed on mine. "Right now?"

I nod.

"A dance."

I glance toward the dance floor, where the music has shifted into something slower. "That's it?"

"For now."

The way he says those two words should probably concern me. Instead, I find myself smiling. "You're awfully mysterious."

"It's a masquerade."

"Fair point."

He extends his hand, and I hesitate for approximately three seconds before placing mine in his. His fingers close around my hand, warm and steady, and he leads me toward the dance floor.

I have no idea who this man is. For all I know, he could be a serial killer with excellent tailoring. Although, considering my documentary obsession, I'd like to think I'd recognize the warning signs.

Probably.

He turns to face me, placing one hand at my waist while keeping the other wrapped around mine. And suddenly, the room feels a whole lot smaller.

"You're quiet," he observes.

"I'm trying to decide whether you're charming or dangerous."

"Can't I be both?"

I laugh softly. "That sounds like something a dangerous man would say."

"Then perhaps you should be careful."

"Perhaps you should stop giving me reasons to be suspicious."

His thumb brushes against my waist, a small movement that somehow manages to distract me from the conversation entirely. "Would you prefer I tell you everything about myself?"

"Maybe start with your name."

"No names tonight."

I lift an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"That's a little dramatic."

"Would knowing my name change anything?"

I consider that. Probably not. But there's something strangely exciting about not knowing.

"No," I admit.

"Then let's leave it that way."

We move together as the music plays, and I quickly discover that my mysterious stranger knows how to dance. Not the awkward swaying most men consider dancing, either. He actually leads. Confident and effortlessly.

And every time I start to put a little distance between us, his hand settles more firmly against my waist, guiding me back.

"You're very good at this," I tell him.

"Dancing?"

"Taking control." 

His mouth curves into a slow smile. "Is that a complaint?"

"Just an observation."

"Then keep observing."

I should have a clever comeback for that. Unfortunately, my brain seems to have temporarily stopped functioning.

He notices. Of course he notices.

"Something wrong?"

"Not a thing."

"You're blushing."

"It's warm in here."

"Of course."

I narrow my eyes. "You're enjoying this."

"More than you know."

The song changes, but neither of us moves away. His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me a little closer. I let him. Which is probably the most surprising part of this entire evening.

I'm not usually the woman who gets swept up by a mysterious stranger at a party. I'm the woman who makes sarcastic comments from the sidelines while her best friend collects phone numbers.

But tonight? Tonight, I'm apparently making questionable decisions, and enjoying every second.

"Tell me something," I say.

"Anything."

"Are you always this bold?"

He pauses. For the first time since approaching me, something shifts in his expression. It's subtle, almost impossible to catch beneath the mask.

"No."

The honesty surprises me. "No?"

He shakes his head. 

"Then what's different tonight?"

His fingers tighten slightly against mine. "You."

One word. That's all he gives me. And somehow, it's more effective than every cheesy pickup line I've heard in my entire life. I glance toward the crowd, suddenly aware that we've been dancing together for several songs.

Natalie is nowhere to be seen. Wonderful. My best friend has officially abandoned me to the masked population.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asks.

"My friend."

"Do you need to find her?"

I look back at him. I should probably say yes. I should probably remember that I don't know this man's name, where he lives, or whether he has a basement full of suspicious gardening equipment.

Instead, I shake my head. "No."

His gaze drops to my lips. "Good."

The word is quiet. Almost possessive. And I hate how much I like it. He leans closer, stopping just short of my ear. "Can I ask you something?"

I swallow. "Depends. Is it going to require a lawyer?"

His soft laugh brushes against my cheek. "No lawyers. Although I can't promise you won't regret saying yes."

"Well, that's reassuring." I tilt my head, smiling. "Go ahead."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes. "May I kiss you?"

My breath catches.

We've been flirting for the better part of twenty minutes, and I've spent at least half that time wondering what his mouth would feel like against mine. Still, I hadn't expected him to ask so directly.

"Yes."

His gaze searches mine for another second before he closes the distance. The kiss starts slowly. A gentle press of his lips against mine. Almost careful. Then I curl my fingers into the front of his jacket, and whatever restraint he's been holding on to disappears.

His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me firmly against him as his mouth moves over mine with an intensity that makes me forget we're standing in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

I kiss him back. Without hesitation. Without worrying about who's watching. And when his tongue brushes against mine, I make a small sound that I sincerely hope the music covers.

He pulls back just enough for us to breathe. "Still think I'm dangerous?"

I stare at him. "Definitely."

His smile is wicked. "Good."

I laugh, shaking my head. "You're trouble."

"You have no idea."

He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, his gaze following the movement. Then he leans closer, his mouth hovering beside my ear. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

I freeze. 'How long?' I pull back enough to look at him. "Wait."

His hand remains steady at my waist. "What?"

I study the dark eyes behind his mask, searching for something familiar. Anything. "Have we met before?"

For a moment, he says nothing. Then his mouth curves into the smallest smile. "Maybe."

And just like that, my mysterious stranger becomes a whole lot more interesting.

More to come!

 Meet Gideon & Poppy: The Couple Behind Breaking the Ice

There are some characters who politely introduce themselves while you're writing.

And then there are characters like Gideon King and Poppy Monroe, who show up, start arguing, make questionable decisions, and apparently expect you to keep up.

Guess which kind I got with Breaking the Ice. 😂

Since we're getting closer to release, I thought it was time to properly introduce the two people at the center of this story.

And trust me, "properly" is doing a lot of work here.

Meet Gideon King
Gideon King is one of the NHL's premier goalies, known as the "Brick Wall."

He's private. Protective. Stubborn. Controlled.

And if you ask certain people, his emotional range occasionally resembles that of a goalpost—which, frankly, isn't entirely inaccurate. The people closest to him know there's considerably more happening beneath the surface than Gideon lets anyone see. 

He's spent years learning how to handle pressure. On the ice, hesitation isn't an option. You see the puck, track it, and move.

People are a little more complicated.

Especially when one very determined reporter walks into his life already convinced she knows exactly who he is.

Gideon's used to people seeing the hockey player. The reputation. The headlines. The Wall.

Poppy doesn't just challenge the image.

She wants to tear it apart.

And Gideon?

He decides to let her try.

Meet Poppy Monroe

Poppy Monroe is a reporter who asks questions people would probably prefer she didn't.

She's determined, fearless, curious, stubborn, and extremely difficult to intimidate.

Which is useful when the man standing on the other side of those questions is a very large NHL goalie who isn't particularly thrilled to see you. 

Poppy enters Gideon's world believing she already knows the truth about him.

She has reasons for believing it, too.

As far as she's concerned, Gideon King isn't the beloved hockey star everyone thinks he is, and she's prepared to expose what she believes is hiding underneath the carefully controlled public image.

There's just one problem.

The closer she gets to the real Gideon, the harder it becomes to make what she's discovering fit the story she thought she knew.

And Poppy is a reporter.

When the pieces don't fit, she can't leave them alone.

Forty-Eight Hours. No PR. No Scripts. No Masks.

This is where writing these two became ridiculously fun.

Gideon doesn't convince Poppy to trust him.

Instead, he gives her access.

Forty-eight hours.

She can watch him. Question him. Dig into his life and decide for herself whether the man standing in front of her matches the one she's already convicted in her mind.

Which is obviously an excellent idea when two people already have absolutely no chemistry whatsoever.

Ahem.

Moving on.

What starts as confrontation becomes something much more complicated as Poppy begins asking different questions and Gideon realizes the reporter trying to dismantle his reputation might also be one of the few people willing to look beyond it.

And neither one of them is particularly happy about the attraction developing along the way.

Naturally. 

Why I Love Them Together

What I love most about Gideon and Poppy isn't simply that they clash.

It's why they clash.

Poppy wants the truth.

Gideon wants her to stop deciding what that truth is before she has all the facts.

She pushes.

He pushes back.

They're both stubborn enough to make everything approximately 700% more difficult than necessary.

But underneath all of that friction are two people who have their own reasons for being careful about who they trust.

That's what made their relationship so much fun for me to write.

The attraction is there, obviously. This is a spicy romance. I'm not going to pretend everyone keeps their hands politely to themselves. 

But I wanted more than physical chemistry between them.

I wanted the questions.

The suspicion.

The moments when one of them realizes something about the other doesn't fit the version they've created in their head.

And that uncomfortable little moment when "I know exactly who you are" starts becoming "Maybe I don't know you at all."

That's where Gideon and Poppy really came alive for me.

And Then There's the Mystery...

Because Breaking the Ice isn't only about whether Poppy and Gideon can stop arguing long enough to admit what's happening between them.

There's a question sitting underneath their entire relationship:

What if the story Poppy believes isn't the real story?

Gideon insists she's wrong.

Poppy has every reason to believe she's right.

And finding the truth means pulling on a thread that becomes much bigger than either of them expected.

That's about as much as I'm saying.

I know things.

You don't.

And I intend to keep it that way until you read the book. 

Meet Them November 30

Breaking the Ice releases November 30, and I am getting dangerously close to the point where keeping everything to myself becomes impossible.

Gideon and Poppy have been living in my head for a very long time.

Now you finally get to meet them.

A stubborn reporter. A guarded NHL goalie.

Forty-eight hours of access.

One very inconvenient attraction.

And a truth neither of them is prepared for.

Welcome to Breaking the Ice. 🏒🔥

Enjoy!  🎃

 🎃 Kiss Me at Midnight

A Halloween Romance Short Story 

by L.S. Phoenix

Some masks hide secrets. Others reveal them. There are three things I hate about Halloween parties.

One: costumes that require explaining.

Two: strangers who think a mask gives them permission to flirt badly.

And three: my best friend, Sophie, who has somehow convinced me that attending a masquerade ball held at a renovated Victorian mansion will be fun.

“Stop glaring,” she says, adjusting the silver mask covering the upper half of my face. “You look gorgeous.”

“I look like someone about to be murdered in the opening scene of a horror movie.”

“You're wearing a black dress and heels, Claire. Not a bloodstained nightgown.”

“Give it time.”

Sophie laughs and disappears toward the bar, leaving me alone beneath a chandelier that probably costs more than my car.

Wonderful.

I last exactly eleven minutes before escaping to the terrace. The October air is cold enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms. Beyond the railing, the garden glows with strings of amber lights, and carved pumpkins line the stone pathways.

At least out here, nobody is trying to convince me to dance.

“Running away already?”

The voice comes from behind me. Deep. Amused. Annoyingly attractive.

I turn.

A man stands in the doorway wearing a tailored black suit and a dark mask that conceals the upper half of his face. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and holding two glasses of champagne.

“I prefer the term strategic retreat,” I say.

His mouth curves. “Should I be concerned?”

“Depends. Are you here to tell me how mysterious I look?”

“No.”

“Ask what I'm dressed as?”

“Definitely not.”

“Deliver a terrible pickup line?”

He considers that. “I was going to offer you champagne, but now I feel wildly underprepared.”

Against my better judgment, I smile.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Careful,” he says, offering me a glass. “Someone might think you're enjoying yourself.”

“Let's not start rumors.”

He steps beside me, leaving a polite distance between us. For a while, we watch the garden in comfortable silence. Then he says, “Are you always this suspicious of strangers?”

“Only the suspiciously charming ones.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“For you?”

“For my chances of convincing you to dance.”

I glance at him. “You haven't asked.”

“Would you say yes?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I'm preserving my dignity.”

I laugh. Actually laugh at that.

It's been a long time since a man managed that without trying too hard. Inside, the music changes to something slow and haunting.

He sets his untouched champagne on the railing. “One dance,” he says.

“That's not a question.”

“One dance, Claire?”

My smile vanishes.

He goes still as I stare at him.

“How do you know my name?”

For the first time since walking out here, he looks almost nervous. Then he reaches up and removes his mask.

And my heart does something spectacularly stupid.

“Ethan?”

My former neighbor. My high school debate partner. The boy who once climbed through my bedroom window with a bag of stolen Halloween candy because I'd been grounded.

The man who moved across the country six years ago without ever knowing I'd been half in love with him.

He smiles. “Surprise?”

I blink.

Then narrow my eyes. “You absolute jerk.”

His smile widens. “There she is.”

“You knew it was me this entire time?”

“About three seconds after you threatened to accuse the party guests of murder.”

“That could've been anyone.”

“Not with your delivery.”

I fold my arms. “You could've said something.”

“I was going to.”

“When?”

He looks at me for a long moment. “After I worked up the courage.”

That stops me. Ethan has never lacked courage. Not when we were kids. Not when he stood up to the school principal. Not when he left our tiny hometown to chase a career everyone told him was impossible.

“You?” I ask quietly. “Nervous?”

“Around you? Always.”

The music drifts through the open doors. Somewhere inside, people cheer.

But I can't look away from him. “Why?”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to make the cold night feel suddenly warmer.

“Because I spent six years wondering whether I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

My throat tightens.

“Leaving?”

“Leaving without telling you how I felt.”

I stare at him, and he lets out a humorless laugh.

“Yeah. I know. Terrible timing. Six years too late.”

“Ethan—”

“I came back last month,” he says. “I kept trying to figure out how to see you without making it weird.”

“So you chose a masquerade ball?”

“In hindsight, not my strongest plan.”

I laugh softly, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Then the air between us changes.

“Claire,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me I shouldn’t look at you like that.”

I swallow. “Like what?”

“Like I've been thinking about kissing you since we were seventeen.”

My pulse stumbles. “That's a very long time.”

“Trust me. I'm aware.”

I step closer, and his hand lifts, hesitates, then settles gently at my waist.

“Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“You're still terrible at making the first move.”

He smiles. “Is that a complaint?”

“It's an observation.”

“Then let me correct it.” He leans in slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away.

I don't.

His lips brush mine, soft and tentative. Then I catch the front of his jacket and kiss him properly. He makes a quiet sound against my mouth, and suddenly there's nothing tentative about the way he pulls me closer.

His other hand slides to the back of my neck. The kiss deepens. Warmth rushes through me, chasing away the October chill. When we finally separate, his forehead rests against mine.

“Well,” he whispers.

“Well,” I agree.

“Worth waiting six years?”

I pretend to consider it. “Ask me again after the second kiss.”

He laughs. And kisses me again.

Somewhere inside, a clock begins to chime. Midnight.

Ethan draws back just enough to look at me. “Happy Halloween, Claire.”

I smile. “Happy Halloween, Ethan.”

Then I tug him closer by his jacket.

“Now,” I say, “about those six years you owe me…”

His grin turns wicked. “I was hoping you'd bring that up.”

He doesn't wait for me to finish the thought. His hand closes around mine, and then we're moving — back past the champagne he abandoned on the railing, through the open doors, into the wall of heat and music and too many people.

"Where are we going?"

"Away from them."

Good enough for me.

He cuts through the crowd like he's got a map in his head. Down a hallway. Up a narrow back staircase that creaks under both of us. The music thins to a pulse behind the walls.

"You've been here before," I say.

"I looked up the floor plan."

"Of course you did."

He opens a door at the end of the hall. A study, dark wood, a wall of books, one lamp, a leather chaise beneath the window. The door clicks shut, and the party becomes a murmur.

Then he turns and looks at me properly.

I forget every clever thing I was going to say.

"Come here," he says.

I go.

His mouth is on mine before I've crossed the rug. My back finds the bookshelves, the spines dig in, and I could not care less. The kiss outside had been a question. This one already knows the answer.

His hands travel up my sides, over the silk, and stop under my arms like he's memorizing where I end. He kisses me like a man catching up on six years, which I suppose he is.

"Ethan," I manage, between his mouth and my jaw.

"Yeah."

"Stop being polite."

He laughs against my throat. "That a complaint?"

"It's an observation."

"Noted." He nips my earlobe, then finds my zipper and drags it down one tooth at a time, knuckles bumping along my spine.

"You've thought about this," I say.

"Six years' worth."

"Give or take."

"Mostly give."

The dress gives way and slides down my shoulders, over my hips, and hits the floor. He steps back just far enough to look at me. Heels, black lace, silver mask—and something in his face goes very quiet.

"Keep the mask on," he says.

"Bossy."

"You have no idea."

He unhooks my bra with an almost insulting ease, and then his mouth is on my breast, warm and slow, tongue dragging, and my head falls back against the books. My hands find his shirt and start on the buttons, and I'm terrible at it.

"Ethan."

"Mm."

"Take this off or I'm ripping it."

"This is a very expensive shirt."

"Is it?"

He straightens, shrugs off his jacket. The tie goes next, then the shirt, and I get to look at him—the shoulders, the flat stomach, the faint scar on his ribs from the summer he fell out of the oak tree behind our houses. Six years older and exactly the same.

"There you are," I say.

His smile flickers. Then he lifts me by the waist and sets me on the desk. Papers scatter. Something rolls off and hits the floor. Neither of us checks.

He kneels.

"Oh," I say.

"Yeah," he says, and peels my underwear down my legs.

The first pass of his mouth arches my back clean off the desk. He's slow about it. Unhurried. Like the six years were nothing and he's got all night and the party downstairs can burn.

"Ethan—"

His tongue flattens and drags, and whatever the rest of that sentence was, is gone.

Two fingers slide into me while his mouth works. My heels dig into his back, the wood creaks, and I'm making sounds I haven't made in years. He curls his fingers, finding the spot, and keeps finding it, over and over, until my thighs start to shake.

"I'm—" I gasp.

He doesn't slow down.

It rolls through me in waves, one after another, and he stays with it until I'm pushing at his head and laughing and swearing.

When he finally looks up, his mouth is wet, his eyes are black, and he's grinning like he's won something.

"Worth the wait?" he asks.

I grab his belt and pull. "Get up here."

He stands. I get the belt open, then the button, then the zipper, and slide my hand inside and wrap my hand around him and watch his jaw go tight.

"Claire."

"Mm?"

"Do that again, and this is over before it starts."

I do it again.

He groans, steps between my legs, and pushes me flat across the desk. My heels come off somewhere. His hand hooks my knee. He's right there. Then he's inside me —slow, all the way, and we both stop breathing for a second.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Ethan."

"That's not—"

"Move."

He moves.

It's not graceful. The desk is too small, the lamp is rattling, one of us knocks over a stack of books, and neither of us stops. He braces one hand on the wood beside my head, the other gripping my hip while he drives into me. I hold onto his forearms and watch his face, six years of waiting pour out of both of us into a room that smells like old paper and champagne.

"Look at me," he says.

"I am."

"Good."

His rhythm stutters while mine's already gone. He gets a hand between us and presses his thumb right where I need it, and that's it—I come again, harder this time.  I clench around him, and hear myself say his name like it's the only word I know.

He follows a few strokes later. Buried deep. Face in my neck. Breathing like he ran here from across the country.

For a while, neither of us says anything. Somewhere downstairs, the party is still going. And Sophie is absolutely texting me. I couldn't care less.

For the first time all night, I'm very glad Sophie dragged me to the party.

The End. 🎃❤️

A little note from me ❤️

Sometimes the best love stories begin with terrible timing, unfinished conversations, and a second chance neither person saw coming.

I hope you enjoyed this little Halloween romance!

If you love stubborn heroines, charming heroes, and chemistry that refuses to stay buried, you'll find plenty more romance in my published books.

📚 Explore my books:

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

And tell me in the comments: Would you rather fall for a mysterious stranger at a masquerade ball—or discover he's someone you've loved all along? 🎭❤️

One hallway.

Two enemies.

Zero boundaries.

We’ve reached the final chapter of Terms & Conditions Apply, and apparently Clara and Noah have decided that if they’re ending a year-long cold war, they’re going to do it properly.

🔥 Reader note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adult readers.

Now let’s see exactly what happens when these two stop fighting long enough to admit what they actually want.

Chapter Four

Clara

The distance between Unit 4A and Unit 4B feels entirely ridiculous when my apartment is practically a staging ground for unfinished business.

Noah’s hand is locked tightly with mine as we step back across my doorway late Sunday evening.

The chaotic mess of the kitchen, the empty espresso pods, the sticky notes, the stark, glaring white screen of my laptop, is still sitting there exactly where I left it Friday night.

But the panic that used to cling to it is entirely gone.

"You're staring at it again," Noah murmurs, his voice dropping low right beside my ear as he shuts the front door behind us and immediately backs me against it.

"I'm evaluating my life choices," I whisper back, though my breath hitches instantly as his large frame crowds into my space, his body heat radiating right through my clothes.

"Evaluate this instead."

His mouth crashes down onto mine with a raw, demanding hunger that sweeps away any lingering resistance.

This isn't the heated, exploratory friction of our first kiss on Friday night. This is absolute possession.

His hands slide down my back, gripping the curve of my hips with a roughness that makes me whimper, his fingers digging in like he's marking territory.

"You have no fucking idea how many times I jerked off to the thought of you," he growls against my lips, his voice gravel-rough and filthy. "All weekend watching you fall apart under me, and I'm still not close to done."

His hands slide lower, gripping the backs of my thighs and lifting me effortlessly so my legs automatically wrap around his waist.

I gasp against his lips, and he takes immediate advantage, deepening the kiss as his tongue sweeps inside, tasting of heat and pure arrogance.

He grinds against me, his hard length pressing right where I need it most, and I can feel the smirk against my mouth when I moan.

"That's it," he mutters, his voice dripping with sinful approval. "Let me hear you. Let your neighbors know exactly who's making you scream."

I sink my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer as he carries me across the small apartment, not breaking the kiss until he sets me on the edge of the kitchen counter.

He steps between my thighs, his broad chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that makes my head spin.

"Noah," I breathe, my hands sliding down to grip the hem of his black T-shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes raking over my flushed face with a predatory satisfaction that makes my thighs clench.

"Say it again," he demands, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip. "Say my name when you're this wet for me."

"Noah."

His jaw tightens.

"I told you," he mutters, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my jawline, over my throat, and right to the sensitive hollow beneath my collarbone where my pulse is hammering wildly.

His hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, his warm palm splaying flat against the bare skin of my ribs before moving higher, cupping my breast with a proprietary greed that makes me arch into him.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his thumb dragging across my hardened nipple through the thin fabric of my bra. "Responsive as hell. I knew you'd be like this. Knew you'd take my cock like you were made for it."

Every sarcastic remark, every late-night war over thin walls and stereo bass, condenses into this single, burning point of friction.

Noah groans against my skin, the sound rough and vibrating with a desperate edge that matches the frantic rhythm of my own pulse.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my shorts, dragging them down my hips with a deliberate slowness that feels like torture.

"Lift."

I obey instantly, my breath coming in shallow pants as he strips me bare from the waist down.

His gaze drops to where I'm exposed, his jaw tightening with a raw hunger that makes me feel like the most wanted thing in the world.

"Jesus, Clara. You're soaked."

He drags one thick finger through my folds, circling my clit with a teasing pressure that has me bucking against his hand.

"Is this all for me? This pretty little pussy begging for my cock?"

"Tell me to stop," he dares, his eyes lifting to mine as his thumb brushes over the sensitive apex of my hip.

For one suspended second, he waits.

I don't even hesitate.

My hands slide up to grip his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle as I pull him back down to me.

"If you stop now, I'll call the super and tell him you're running an illegal sublet ring."

A dark, lethal smirk touches the corners of his mouth.

"Good thing I have no intention of stopping."

He pushes two fingers inside me, stretching me with a delicious burn that sends my head falling back with a sharp cry.

"But you're going to wait," he murmurs, curling his fingers to hit a spot that makes my vision blur. "Not going to let you come until I'm buried balls-deep in you, understand? You're going to take every inch, Clara. Going to fuck you so hard you feel me for days."

"Noah..."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes."

His eyes flash.

"Yes, what?"

I glare at him through the haze of pleasure. Even now, he's infuriating.

"Yes, you arrogant asshole."

His grin is immediate.

"There she is."

Then he pulls his fingers away.

I make a sound of protest that only makes him laugh before he hooks his hands beneath my thighs and lifts me from the counter.

"You're enjoying this way too much," I mutter.

"You've been yelling at me through a wall for a year. I've earned this."

"You started half those fights."

"More than half."

"Asshole."

"Keep talking, Miller."

He hoists me higher against his hips and carries me straight toward the narrow hallway leading to my bedroom.

The ambient city light spills through the window as he lays me back against the mattress, following me down instantly, his solid weight blanketing me completely.

When his mouth meets mine again, it’s deeper, hungrier, stripping away any remaining pretense of control.

He tears his shirt off in one rough movement, and I do the same with mine, my bra following seconds later until we're both panting and bare-chested, skin sliding against heated skin.

"Look at me," he orders, his voice tight with restraint as he shoves his jeans down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against my stomach.

I can't look away.

I don't want to.

He grips himself at the base, dragging the head through my wetness with a slow, teasing stroke that has me trembling.

"You want this?" he demands, his eyes blazing into mine. "Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck you raw."

"Yes," I gasp, my nails scoring down his back, desperate and shameless. "Please, Noah. I need you inside me. Now."

He pushes in with one hard thrust, filling me, stretching me around him until I'm gasping at the sheer size of him.

We both freeze for a moment, breathing hard, his forehead dropping to mine.

"Fuck," he grits out, his hips jerking involuntarily. "So tight. So fucking perfect."

Then he moves.

He pulls back and drives in again, setting a ruthless pace that has the bedframe slamming against the wall.

"This is what you were missing," he growls, his mouth at my ear, his voice stripped raw. "This is what I wanted to do to you every single time you mouthed off through that wall. Wanted to bend you over and fuck the attitude right out of you."

I cry out as he hits deeper, angling his hips to grind against my clit with every stroke.

"Noah..."

"That's it, baby. Take it."

He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, opening me up further, driving into me with a force that should be too much but isn't.

It's exactly what I need.

"Going to fill you up," he promises, his rhythm faltering, his muscles coiling tight with his own impending release. "Going to make sure you never sleep in this bed again without remembering how I owned you in it."

I come apart with a sob, my orgasm ripping through me in violent waves that have me clenching around him, my back arching off the mattress.

He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan that sounds like my name torn in half, spilling hot and deep inside me as he collapses forward, his weight pressing me into the sheets.

We lie there for long minutes, tangled and sweating, his mouth pressing lazy kisses to my shoulder as our breathing slows.

"Mine," he murmurs against my skin, the word possessive and sated. "Say it."

"Yours," I whisper back.

I feel him smile against my shoulder.

Then I turn my head toward him.

"Don't let it go to your head, Bennett."

"Too late."

"Of course it is."

His laugh is quiet against my skin, and I close my eyes, smiling despite myself.

By Monday morning, the apartment is entirely transformed.

Not physically.

The empty espresso pods are still scattered across the counter. My sticky notes are still everywhere. There's a coffee mug in the sink that I have absolutely no intention of dealing with before noon.

But the laptop is closed, the final manuscript has been sent, and my book is officially sitting in my agent's inbox with a smug little note attached that Noah insisted on helping me write.

SARAH: It's done. Nobody died. You're welcome.

I deleted Noah's original suggestion.

SARAH: It's done. Clara survived because of me. Please direct all praise and future royalty negotiations to Noah Bennett.

He remains offended by my editorial decision.

Now we're sitting side by side at my kitchen counter, sharing a cup of coffee while sunlight streams through the window.

There is no thumping bass across the hall, no passive-aggressive sticky note waiting downstairs, and no cold war left to fight.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

I glance at the screen.

SARAH: I HAVE IT.

A second message arrives before I can answer.

SARAH: Also, why was this sent at 6:14 in the morning?

Noah leans over my shoulder to read it.

"Tell her creative genius doesn't adhere to conventional business hours."

"Creative genius?"

"Fine. Tell her you were busy all weekend."

I slowly turn my head toward him.

His expression is perfectly innocent.

"Don't."

"What?"

"You know exactly what."

His mouth curves.

My phone buzzes again.

SARAH: Go to sleep.

I hold it up for Noah to see.

"See? Professional advice."

"I've been telling you that since Friday."

"You also kidnapped me."

"Rescued."

"Right. Sorry. You conducted a hostile takeover."

"Much better."

I set the phone face down on the counter and reach for the coffee.

Noah gets there first.

"Hey."

He takes a deliberately slow sip.

"Get your own."

"This is my apartment."

"I made the coffee."

"With my coffee maker."

"Terms and conditions."

I stare at him.

He smiles.

There he is.

The infuriating neighbor I've spent almost a year wanting to strangle.

Except now I know what that smile tastes like.

Which is inconvenient.

Noah reaches across the granite counter, his fingers brushing against mine before lacing our hands together.

He looks over at me, that familiar, infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes are entirely soft.

"Sore?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that makes heat pool in my stomach all over again.

I feel my face flush, but I don't look away.

"In the best way possible."

His thumb rubs slowly over my knuckles.

"So," he says quietly. "Do we cancel your lease now, or are you going to make me officially apply to be your roommate?"

I nearly choke on my coffee.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"We've been doing this for three days."

"I've known you for a year."

"You've annoyed me for a year."

"Semantics."

I stare at him.

He's smiling, but there's something underneath it now. Something softer. Something that tells me he's joking about the lease but maybe not entirely joking about everything else.

I lean my head against his shoulder.

"No."

"No?" he repeats.

"You're not moving in."

"Harsh."

"You haven't even survived the boyfriend probationary period."

He goes very still.

I realize what I said approximately half a second too late.

Slowly, I lift my head.

Noah is staring at me.

That smug smile returns.

Oh, no.

"Boyfriend?"

"Don't."

"You said, boyfriend."

"I know what I said."

"Just making sure."

"I can revoke the title."

His fingers tighten around mine.

"No, you can't."

"Pretty sure I can."

"Terms and conditions already accepted."

I narrow my eyes at him.

"Terms and conditions definitely apply, Bennett."

He leans down and kisses my temple.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

The End

And that’s a wrap on Terms & Conditions Apply. ❤️

Four days, one deadline, a bag of garlic knots, and two neighbors who spent an entire year pretending they couldn’t stand each other.

I hope you had as much fun with Clara and Noah as I did.

Now I need to know:

When did you realize these two were absolutely doomed to end up together? 😂

Waking up in your enemy’s bed is one thing.

Waking up with his arm around you, his body pressed against yours, and absolutely no desire to leave?

That might be a problem.

Welcome back to Terms & Conditions Apply. Clara and Noah’s cold war is officially starting to look a lot less cold.

Chapter Three

Clara

Sunlight is streaming through the large windows when I finally blink my eyes open, slicing golden lines across the wide-plank hardwood floor.

For a disoriented second, I have no idea where I am.

The ceiling isn’t the flat white paint of my own bedroom with its simple flush-mount fixture. It’s a smooth expanse outfitted with sleek, modern track lighting. The walls are a sophisticated, muted charcoal instead of my neutral beige, framing a low-profile designer sofa and a minimalist walnut coffee table.

The scent under my nose isn't stale espresso and burnt toast, but clean sandalwood, fresh linen, and something undeniably, richly male.

And then I realize I am completely trapped.

Noah’s arm is slung heavy and possessive right across my waist, pinning me to his side like I’m a piece of rare contraband he has no intention of surrendering. His breathing is slow and steady against the back of my neck, warm puffs of air brushing against my skin with every rise and fall of his chest.

He is completely dead to the world, yet somehow his body remains coiled and hyper-aware.

When I try to inch away, sliding a fraction of an inch to the left to slip out from under his weight, it’s an immediate mistake.

His arm shifts, pressing me flush against him, and I instantly feel the hard, undeniable length of his cock digging into the small of my back.

Before I can even catch my breath, a low, gravelly rumble vibrates straight from his chest against me, half chuckle, half warning.

His hand drifts lazily down my hip, his thumb pressing a slow, deliberate circle into my stomach before he murmurs right against my ear.

"Ignore it, Miller. You're the one wriggling against me."

His arm tightens when I try to move again.

"And where do you think you're slithering off to?"

His voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges and entirely too smug for eight in the morning.

"I have a life, Noah. A career. A deadline you attempted to brutally murder last night, remember?" I whisper back, trying to pry his fingers away from my hip, though my heart is betraying me by hammering a frantic little rhythm against my ribs.

"Your deadline is a social construct," he mutters, finally cracking one dark eye open to glare at the blinding sunlight before burying his face back into the crook of my neck.

His stubble scrapes lightly against my skin, sending a warm, electric shiver straight down my spine.

"Stay still. It’s Saturday."

"It's actually Friday. Wait."

I freeze, my brain suddenly screeching to a halt.

"No. Last night was Friday."

"Excellent work," he murmurs against my neck.

I elbow him lightly.

"So it is Saturday."

"That's usually what comes after Friday."

"Don't be an asshole. I just woke up."

"I noticed."

His mouth moves against my skin as he speaks, and I can practically feel his smirk.

"Which means Sarah isn't checking her emails, your publishing house is a ghost town, and you have two full days before anyone expects that manuscript."

"You sound disturbingly pleased about that."

"I am disturbingly pleased about a lot of things this morning."

His hips shift almost imperceptibly behind me.

My entire body goes hot.

"Noah."

"What?" he asks innocently.

I twist around in his arms so I'm glaring down at him, my hair a wild bird's nest around my face.

Noah finally opens both eyes, blinking lazily up at me with a slow, devastating grin stretching across his face.

He looks completely unbothered, his dark hair tousled from sleep, his broad chest entirely bare and glistening faintly in the morning light.

"You kidnapped me," I accuse.

"I rescued you," he corrects, his hand sliding up my spine to tangle gently in my hair, keeping me right where he wants me. "There’s a difference."

"I crossed the hallway voluntarily."

"Details."

"You can't claim to have rescued someone who walked willingly into your apartment."

"Sure I can. You were suffering from acute manuscript-induced insanity."

"That's not a medical condition."

"It should be."

I narrow my eyes at him.

His grin only widens.

"Besides," he says, "I ordered delivery about an hour ago. The driver should be buzzing the intercom any second now."

"You ordered food," I repeat flatly. "You, the man who spent a year waging psychological warfare against me over a shared hallway, are now ordering me food."

"I told you last night, Miller. Hostile takeover."

He traces a slow, lazy circle down the bridge of my nose with his thumb.

"Turns out, feeding you and keeping you away from your keyboard makes you a lot less likely to try to poison my coffee."

"Who says I stopped?" I shoot back, though my lips twitch upward in spite of myself.

Before he can answer, a sharp electronic chime rings out from somewhere near the entryway.

Noah groans, dropping his head back against the pillows with an expression of profound annoyance.

"That will be the delivery," he mutters, reluctantly dropping his arm and rolling out of bed.

I watch, entirely against my better judgment, as he stands up.

He pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants that ride low on his hips, the fabric catching on the V-line of his waist, and stretches his arms over his head. The muscles across his back ripple with an effortless, lethal grace that makes my throat dry.

"Don't look too hard, Miller. You'll drool," he tosses over his shoulder without turning around, walking out toward the foyer with that same arrogant swagger that drove me insane for twelve straight months.

I grab a pillow and throw it at him.

He ducks at the last second, and it sails harmlessly through the doorway.

His laughter follows him down the hall.

Asshole.

Ten minutes later, we're sitting at his sleek, marble-topped kitchen island, the very antithesis of my chaotic, cramped counter, tearing into an absurd amount of pastries, artisan avocado toast, eggs, and a massive amount of black coffee he somehow knew to order.

The morning sunlight pours through the glass, and for the first time in a year, the ambient noise of the building doesn't feel like an act of war.

"So," Noah says, taking a slow sip of his coffee as he watches me over the rim of the mug. "What happens when you finish the book?"

I pause, a forkful of eggs hovering halfway to my mouth.

I look up, meeting his intense, unblinking gaze.

The playful, teasing edge in his eyes has shifted into something much deeper, much sharper. Something that feels uncomfortably permanent.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, once the manuscript is turned in, the publisher accepts it, and the frantic late-night typing stops," he says quietly, setting his mug down with a soft click against the marble. "Do we go back to sliding passive-aggressive notes under each other's doors, or do we acknowledge that the cold war is officially over?"

The kitchen goes dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator.

The reality of what we started last night hangs heavily in the air between us, real and unavoidable.

I drop my fork onto the plate, leaning back against the stool and crossing my arms over my chest, slipping right back into my defensive armor, even if it feels a lot thinner this morning.

"That depends, Noah," I murmur, tilting my head with a challenging smile. "Are you going to keep playing bass at midnight?"

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, that familiar, arrogant spark returning to his dark eyes as he reaches across the marble to catch my hand in his, lacing our fingers together.

"Only if you promise to keep coming across the hall to complain about it."

Passive-aggressive notes might be off the table.

The midnight bass?

Apparently negotiable. 😂

Tomorrow is the final chapter, and Clara and Noah still have a few terms left to work out.

 I love reading hockey romance.

There. That's probably the least complicated explanation for how I ended up writing one. 😂

I've read plenty of them; I know how popular the genre is right now, and apparently at some point my brain decided that enjoying other people's fictional hockey players wasn't enough.

I needed one of my own.

And then Breaking the Ice would not leave me alone.

At first, it was just one of those story ideas that kept hanging around in the back of my mind. You know the kind. The one that politely waits while you're supposed to be thinking about something else and then goes:

Hey.

Remember me?

We should write this.

Eventually, I gave in.

And once I actually started writing Gideon and Poppy's story, something clicked. I knew the direction I wanted to take it. I knew what kind of relationship I wanted between them. And the deeper I got into their story, the more certain I became that this was exactly the book I was supposed to be writing.

So...why hockey romance?

Partly because I genuinely love reading it.

Partly because hockey romance is incredibly popular right now, and clearly I'm not the only reader who has developed an appreciation for fictional hockey players. 😂

But mostly?

Because this particular story wouldn't leave me alone.

And I've learned that when a story keeps doing that, I should probably listen.

Of course, I couldn't simply write a cute little hockey romance where everything goes according to plan.

Where would the fun be in that?

Instead, I ended up with Gideon King, a professional goalie who would very much prefer to keep his private life private, and Poppy Monroe, a reporter who enters his life already convinced she knows exactly what kind of man he is.

She has questions.

He has walls.

Neither of them particularly appreciates the other one's attitude.

Which obviously goes wonderfully. 😏

Then Gideon and Poppy took over

One of my favorite things about writing is reaching that point where the characters stop feeling like pieces I'm moving around a board.

They start making sense.

You know how they're going to react. You know what they're going to say. You know exactly which choice they'll make—even when that choice creates an enormous problem you now have to figure out how to fix.

That's what happened with Breaking the Ice.

Once I started writing it, I knew where I wanted Gideon and Poppy to go.

Not that they made getting there easy.

Because apparently I don't know how to give fictional people normal communication skills and a peaceful romantic relationship.

Where's the fun in that? 😂

What can you expect from Breaking the Ice?

Without wandering anywhere near spoiler territory, you can expect hockey, heat, plenty of tension, a very private goalie, a very determined reporter, secrets that need answers, and two people who have some pretty strong opinions about each other when they meet.

And those opinions definitely don't stay uncomplicated.

If you like your romance with sharp banter, messy emotions, chemistry, protective heroes, spice, and a little mystery mixed in, Gideon and Poppy might be your kind of trouble.

Breaking the Ice releases November 30.

And considering this whole thing started because one hockey romance idea refused to leave me alone?

I'm really glad I finally listened.