Free The Perfect Man by Amanda K. Byrne

apartment. He’d been here exactly one week ago, and by this point, he’d already brought me to several mind-bending orgasms. I stared at the envelope. Strange how much changed in a week.
    He’d tipped his head back to rest on the couch and his eyes were shut. Stubble coated his jaw. I scooted forward, unable to resist touching him. I cupped his cheek. He leaned into me, and the shoddy barricade I erected around myself collapsed. I wrapped my arms around him, his head resting against my breast. Tension drained from his body and he lifted me up, settling me on his lap.
    “Something wrong?” I loved his hair. The soft, silky weight of it on my fingers sent little bolts of pleasure through me.
    He groaned. “Where do I start? Lost an amazing woman because I was an ass. Wrote her letters without knowing if she’d even read them or if she’d let me see her.” He was quiet for a moment. “Shift tonight was one of the worst in a while. Twenty car pile-up on the highway. Ten casualties. Three died enroute to the hospital because we couldn’t get through the snow fast enough.”
    I stroked his hair. “Were they in your ambulance?”
    “One of them was.” He shuddered. “Little girl, about five. Same age as my middle nephew.”
    We sat there, wrapped around each other, the air growing colder as the fire died. Alex broke the silence. “I feel guilty. I never told you that.”
    That didn’t sound promising. “Guilty about what?”
    “That fucking click. Heard it with Callie. Heard it immediately. With you? Same thing, only it was a hell of a lot louder. He tipped his head up. “There was something about you that fit right away, and I realized if I’d met you before Callie, I never would have fallen for her. Feels fucking awful.”
    I glided my fingers down his neck. “But you did meet her first. Don’t tell me you regret that.”
    “No.” His answer was fierce and immediate. “I don’t. Feel guilty just the same, though.” He took my hand from the back of his neck and kissed my knuckles. “I keep saying it, but I’m sorry. I messed up, and I messed you up.” I shivered a little from the cold, and he tried to move me to the side. “I’ll get out of here. You probably want to go to bed.”
    I grasped his wrists. “Don’t.” I dropped my gaze and took a breath. Let it out. Drew in another. “You want a second chance.”
    He stilled beneath me.
    Fear uncoiled in my belly. “What’s your obsession with my hair?”
    He blinked, then smiled, his lips spreading slowly. He freed a hand and lifted it to my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Saffron. Had a huge crush on Saffron. I saw you, and it was like I had a chance with my dream girl.”
    My heart plopped right at his feet.
    “We do this, we go slow. We do it the way we should have in the first place. We start with a date, a real one.” Gathering my courage, and my heart, I held them both out and cupped his face. “You knew I was scared,” I whispered fiercely. “You knew, and you walked away. If I’d known you were just as freaked out as I was, we could have talked. Backed off. So you want this chance, you have to promise me we talk.”
    He nodded once, a long, slow bob of his head, and released the breath he’d been holding. I tapped a finger on the end of his nose. “Go on in the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
    His brows drew together. “Hannah—”
    “Quiet. You’re exhausted, in more ways than one. I’m not letting you try to make your way home, and you need to sleep. I’ll be fine on the couch. Take the bed.”
    He glared at me, and I glared back harder. He was my guest, and as such, he’d get the bed. The couch was plenty comfortable. He broke first, grumbling his agreement. I slid off his lap and got to my feet, then made my way out of the living room in search of extra blankets and a pillow. I made up a bed for myself on the couch while he shuffled around in my bedroom.
    Staring at the ceiling, the occasional crack and pop