The bastard's mouth twitches.
“Don't.” I point at him. “Don't you dare.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things.” His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up. “Most of them inadvisable.”
The air between us thickens.
“We need to be careful,” I whisper. “No more looksacross the room. No more almost-touches. Nothing she can use.”
“Agreed.”
But even as he says it, I'm aware of how close we're standing. How easy it would be to reach out. How much I want to close the distance, damn the consequences.
Neither of us moves.
“Can you just—” I gesture at his lower half. “Go stand behind something?”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“I can't have this conversation while you're standing there in gray sweatpants.”
For a second, he just stares at me. Then understanding dawns, followed by something that looks dangerously close to a smirk.
“What's wrong with my sweatpants?”
“You know exactly what's wrong with your sweatpants.” I wave my hand more aggressively. “They're a weapon. They should require a permit. Go stand behind the bar.”
“Sierra—”
“I'm serious, Everett. I'm trying to have a serious conversation about our collective emotional damage and I cannot do that while your—” I gesture vaguely at his entire lower half. “—situationis just right there.”
The bastard actually laughs. The first real laugh I've heard from him since he came back.
“Fine.” He moves behind the bar, putting the solid wood between us. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
“Can we talk now? Or do you need me to put on ski pants?”
“Don't tempt me.”
The joke cracks something open between us leaving the air just a bit lighter even as my heart grows heavier in my chest.
“I can’t stop thinking about Grammie Bea.”
The teasing drains from his expression, replaced by something raw. Something less guarded.
“I see her everywhere in this place,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “Every corner. Every detail. I keep expecting to find her in the kitchen, sneaking cookies before dinner. Or in the window seat, knitting those atrocious scarves.”
“She was awful at knitting.”
A surprised laugh escapes me, breaking some of the tension. “The worst. Remember the one she made for Roman? Six feet long and bright orange.”
“He wore it every day for a month.”
