Close.
Too close.
"Excuse me," he says, voice low.
I freeze.
"What?"
"Need to get into the fridge."
I'm standing directly in front of it.
Could step aside.
Should step aside.
But before I can move, he's there—body pressing against my back as he reaches past me for the fridge handle.
His chest against my shoulders.
His heat seeping through my shirt.
His breath stirring my hair.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"You could've asked me to move," I manage.
"Could have." His voice is a rumble against my back. "Didn't want to."
He opens the fridge, takes his time selecting a Coke from inside.
The whole time, his body is pressed against mine.
Deliberate.
Intentional.
Making a point.
When he finally steps back, I can breathe again.
But then his mouth is at my ear, voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear. "You look beautiful, sweet girl."
Then he's gone.
Walking away like he didn't just set my entire nervous system on fire.
Like he didn't just call me sweet girl in a voice that made my knees weak.
I grip the counter, trying to steady myself.
Magnolia's watching from the stove, eyebrow raised, small smile playing at her lips.
"Told you," she mouths.
I focus on breathing.
