Decker came to hold the free end, and their fingers brushed. Heat licked up her arm like a spark on dry tinder, and her breath hitched.
Weird…but probably nothing.
She’d long ago stopped trusting those little lightning strikes in her body. They were the same current that had led to mistakes in the past. So many bad choices in pretty packaging that her gut had warned her about but she’d overruled. She wasn’t doing that again.
But this was Decker. Quiet, steady Decker with the soulful eyes. Not the same.
She passed him the tape, letting her fingers skim his on purpose this time.
He didn’t startle. He only anchored the streamer while she measured the next loop.
“Balloon arch next,” she announced, pretending her pulse wasn’t tapping double time. “It’s going to be a beast, but we’ve got this.”
They worked the rhythm out between them fast. He inflated, she knotted. He slid balloons onto the plastic strip, she adjusted spacing, color, fullness.
His forearm nudged her shoulder once, twice, and each time a tingle of sensation tracked up the back of her neck. Not unwelcome. Not safe either.
She focused harder on the task, on the way the arch began to take shape, on the tiny wins—another foot done, then another.
He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was to ask what she needed next or to offer a hand before she asked. The room warmed around them, their bodies moving in sync.
A balloon slipped and squealed against another. Suddenly, it burst with a loud pop.
Willow held her breath, gaze darting to Decker. In a therapy program for military vets, startling noises weren’t always accepted. She’d never seen him react to sudden noises, not once since he’d arrived, but she waited anyway—ready to do damage control if the world threw a wrench in his nervous system.
Decker didn’t flinch. He looked down at the broken bits in her palm and offered a fresh balloon like it was nothing.
The breath she’d been holding leaked out slowly. Maybe he didn’t have that particular trigger. It made her wonder, not for the first time, what had landed him in therapy. A big loss? A collection of smaller ones?
She tied off the new balloon and slid it onto the strip. “Thanks.”
“Mm.”
They finished one side of the arch, then the other, and when she stepped back to check the curve, she realized she was smiling. Not the strained hostess smile she’d been wearing all morning—an actual, true smile of accomplishment.
He’d cut the work in half just by being…here.
“Okay.” She glanced around, hands on her hips. “Confetti balloons go at the bottom, pastels toward the top. Because gravity.” She grinned.
He handed her the confetti balloon without comment, but amusement flashed in his eyes. She stepped onto the ladder again to tweak the top, and he made a soft sound in his throat.
“What?” She nudged mint green to kiss light pink.
“You’re going up and down a ladder in heels. You’re just asking to get hurt.”
She peered over her shoulder, a slow smile sliding in. “That’s the most I’ve heard you say in a while. If I need to put myself in danger to get you talking…”
He let out something between a huff and a growl, low and distinctly male.
All of a sudden, he stepped close. His big hands bracketed her hips for a heartbeat—strong and warm—and he lifted her.
Her breath hitched. The world tilted. Then she was on the floor and he was settling her into a chair like she weighed nothing.
“Sit.” His low voice grated over her already zinging senses.
“Bossy,” she managed, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
He glided to one knee in front of her and wrapped a hand around her ankle.
