Chapter SEVEN-ARLISS&KIAN

The drive to my place is short.

Like, blink-and-you-miss-it short.

But with Kian O’Malley behind the wheel? It feels like an eternity.

Holy hell, I’m in his truck.

His actual truck.

Not some dream sequence, not a fever fantasy brought on by working doubles and skipping lunch.

This is real.

And I have no chill.

Because Kian isn’t just good-looking. He’s not some “Oh, he’s cute if you squint” kind of guy.

No, he’s like boy band hot.

Like, late-90s-mega-heartthrob-meets-Outlander-hero hot.

Sure, I’ve seen plenty of attractive men. I don’t live in a hole, thank you very much.

But Kian?

He’s in another category entirely.

I’m a natural blonde. But where my hair is just pale—more faded than gold, like something out of a sun-bleached magazine ad for hair dye—his is bold and bright.

Glittering gold, kissed with dark roots and warm, tawny lowlights, like the sun and the earth decided to get drunk and make art on his head.

And it’s straight.

No curl. No frizz.