“I’m helping.”
“You’re judgingandhelping.”
She shrugs. “Multitasking.”
A muscle tightens in my jaw. She looks at me for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the lights. She tests the plug; half the strand flickers, half stays dark.
“Add it to the list,” she says. “We’re going to have to do a run to the craft store.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not paying for more decorations.”
“You’re not. Molly sent me with her card.” Dahlia straightens, folds the strand, and tucks it aside. “If we don’t make this place festive, your mother will redecorate it herself. Do you want that?”
Absolutely not.
She grins when she sees the answer on my face. “I’ll drive.”
I take a steadying breath. “I’m not going to the craft store with you.”
Her head tilts. “Why not?”
Because every time I get too close to you, I forget how to breathe.
Because I told myself that night meant nothing.
Because if we spend another hour alone together, I’m going to do something stupid.
I say none of that.
“Because I’m busy.”
She looks around the kitchen. “Doing what? Glowering?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
She laughs softly, the sound hitting a spot just under my ribs. “Relax. I’m kidding.” She grabs her coat from the chair. “Come on. The sooner we get what we need, the sooner we can start cooking.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are,” she interrupts gently. “Your family’s counting on you. Molly’s counting on me. We can get through one store run together.”
She moves toward the door.
I stay rooted to the floor, every instinct telling me to keep distance, stay calm, stay sane.
Then she opens the door, cold air sweeping in, her hair blowing loose around her face. She looks back at me, waiting, hopeful, nervous.
And I know I’m screwed.
I grab my coat from the hook.
Her smile hits me square in the chest.
“Good,” she says softly. “Let’s go.”
