“We’d get better data.” He nudged the plan back to safety and sanity. “And fewer distractions.”
Yeah. That was hilarious.
I needed this conversation back under control now. “It’s not a date.”
“Of course not.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Obviously.”
Silence stretched as thick and slow as cooling caramel. The kind you could get stuck in if you lingered too long.
I swallowed. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. “Well… you do make excellent pancakes.”
His head tilted, smile slow, smug, and stupidly appealing. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to my mouth. “That a culinary compliment?”
My lips tingled like they’d been touched. Which they absolutely had not.
“Strictly culinary,” I shot back. “Don’t get ideas.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Liar.
We bent over the list again, refining the details. Our arms brushed once, twice, a dozen times. Every time, a sizzle of awareness snapped up my spine, so sharp it was almost annoying.
I tried to focus on bullet points. On timing. On crowd flow. My brain, the traitor, kept offering up images of his kitcheninstead. How many chairs. How close we’d sit. Whether he cooked like he did everything else—competent and efficient—or if there were parts of him I hadn’t seen yet. Messier parts. Rough edges I could get cut on if I wasn’t careful.
At one point, I reached across him to grab the tape measure. He shifted at the same time, and my palm landed flat on his chest.
Warm. Solid. Hard muscles under a thin t-shirt. His heartbeat thudded against my hand once, twice, before either of us moved.
My breath caught.
His did too.
For a single suspended second, the world narrowed to the press of my hand, the rise of his chest, the way his eyes darkened as they locked on mine. There was a question there, wide open.
I yanked my hand back so fast my fingers tingled. “Sorry,” I said. Way too fast. Way too high.
That low, rough voice murmured, “You’re fine.”
We kept working, pretending nothing happened. Failing miserably.
He stood behind me while I marked spacing for the new shelving, one hand braced beside my shoulder, his body lined up along mine without quite touching. His breath warmed the shell of my ear. Goosebumps chased down my arms, ignoring the fact that I was inside a warmed barn, not standing naked in a snowstorm.
When I asked him to hand me a pencil, he put it directly into my palm, fingers lingering just long enough to make sure I noticed.
I definitely noticed.
My pulse beat against the base of my throat so hard I was half-convinced he saw it.
When I reached across to mark another spot, the world tipped a little under my feet, and his hand settled at my waist to steady me. His palm covered the small of my back, heat soaking through my sweater, fingers spread like he’d done it a thousand times.
I didn’t pull away.
God help me, I leaned into it.
