Heat floods my face. My pulse stumbles, gathers itself, and stumbles again.
He must see the shift in my expression because he releases my arm carefully—slowly enough that I feel every moment his fingers are there, and every moment they’re not.
“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get your measurements.”
We spend the next hour moving furniture, pacing out the living room, ducking around each other in the narrow spaces between the couch and the stove. Every time we pass, it’s like the air tightens—charged, warm, anticipatory.
He holds the end of the measuring tape.
I walk backward with my clipboard.
His eyes flick to my face more than they need to.
I catch him.
He pretends he wasn’t looking.
I pretend I believe him.
At one point, I climb up on a chair to measure the height of a beam. He stands behind me, hands hovering—not touching, but ready in case I fall.
“Got it,” I say, stretching the tape up. “Seven feet, four?—”
The chair wobbles.
I yelp, grabbing for balance.
Calder catches me instantly—one hand at my waist, the other braced around my arm. Strong. Steady. Unshakable.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, closer than close.
I nod, my heart knocking around like it’s trying to escape my chest. “Yes. Yes. Fine.”
His grip loosens slowly but doesn’t fall away completely.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
The word rolls through me like warmth.
I swallow hard. “Right. Yes. Careful. Good.”
His mouth twitches.
“You’re blushing,” he says.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You definitely are.”
I hop down, refusing to look directly at him until the heat cools from my face. He watches me anyway, arms crossed loosely, eyes soft in a way I’m starting to recognize.
This is the man behind the rough edges. The one who jokes in unexpected moments. The one who cooks you breakfast without being asked. The one who tucks blankets around you when you’re scared of thunder.
And I could fall for him so easily.
Too easily.
