“There’s no sawdust in your tear ducts, Jess.”
“We don’t know that. You’re not an eye doctor.”
He smiled, slow and warm. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Thank you.” For once I didn’t tack anything on to blunt or minimize it. “Really. For all of it.”
Something soft and bright flickered in his expression. “Anytime.”
Anytime. As if this—me and him, this strange new tether between us—wasn’t some temporary festival fling but something that would still be here when the Christmas lights came down.
Dangerous thought. Absolutely not allowed. I shoved it aside and reached for my notebook. “Okay. Twelve Stops time. We need final talking points before tomorrow’s volunteer meeting.”
He leaned back against the opposite counter, elbows braced on the edge. “Hit me.”
We discussed the last of the details, while he studied me as if I was more interesting than anything on our informal agenda. I pretended not to notice those muscular forearms.
When I’d finished, he nodded. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll cook again.”
My stomach fluttered in that now-familiar, traitorous way. “You just like showing off.”
“I like feeding you.”
The words slipped out so simply he clearly didn’t realize what they sounded like until they were hanging between us, heavy and intimate. My hand tightened on the pen. He stilled.
It did something to me—to be liked that way. Not as some abstract crush or a convenient caffeine dealer, but as a person he wanted to take care of in small, tangible ways.
That was dangerous too.
“Fine,” I said, because my defenses were patchy at best and sarcasm was the only duct tape I trusted. “You can feed me. For science.”
“For science,” he echoed, voice low, eyes warm. “Obviously.”
We returned to work for a while, companionably working to install cabinet hardware. It should have been only that: work. But everything was charged now. Every time I stepped past him in the narrow aisle, my shoulder brushed his chest. Every timehe ducked under my arm to grab a tool, his breath skimmed my neck.
He didn’t push. But he also didn’t pretend not to notice.
Neither did I.
I was reaching for the tape measure near his elbow when he shifted at the same time, and our hands collided. His fingers closed around mine instinctively.
The contact lingered a beat too long, warm and solid.
I could’ve pulled away. I didn’t.
He turned his hand slightly, so our fingers slid against each other, slow and deliberate. My heart did a full somersault in my chest.
“Jess.”
At his murmur, I looked up. Big mistake. His eyes were dark and intent, fixed on my face like he was cataloguing every micro-expression, every flinch, every invitation.
“Yeah?” My voice was not nearly as steady as I wanted it to be.
He didn’t answer with words.
He stepped in, closing the space between us, and leaned down. The kiss started soft—testing, merely the press of his mouth against mine like a question.
I answered with a yes. Not out loud. But in the way my fingers tightened around his, in the way I tipped my chin up and leaned into him. In the small, involuntary sound that escaped when his free hand slid to my waist and pulled me closer.
