“Right.” His hands are still covering mine on the shovel handle, warm despite the cold. “Friends who live next door to each other.”
“Who have to see each other every day.”
“Who share a driveway.”
I laugh softly. “Are we trying to talk ourselves into this or out of it?”
“Out of it,” Nate says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Definitely out of it.”
“Right.” I nod, finally forcing myself to step away from his warmth. “Because that would be…”
“A bad idea,” he finishes, letting his hands fall from mine.
The morning air feels colder without him pressed against me. I turn to face him properly, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. There’s want there, clear as day, but also something softer, more vulnerable.
“A terrible idea,” I agree, but I’m smiling. “Though I have to say, as far as bad ideas go…”
“Don’t,” he warns, but he’s fighting a smile too. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
I raise my hands in surrender, still holding the shovel. “Fine, fine. Friends it is. Very platonic, completely normal neighbors who occasionally share ice cream and snow-shoveling techniques.”
“Exactly.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I try not to notice how adorable he looks when he’s flustered. “Speaking of which, let’s finish clearing this snow before it gets any deeper.”
“Yes, sir,” I say with an exaggerated salute, and his resulting eye roll makes me grin. “Show me that technique again? From a safe, friendly distance this time.”
Well, that answers the other question. He’s at least into men.
We manage to clear the rest of the driveway without any more almost-kisses, though I catch Nate watching me more than once. Each time our eyes meet, that spark of electricity crackles between us, making it harder to remember why kissing him would be a bad idea.
“That should do it,” Nate says finally, leaning on his shovel and surveying our work. The driveway is clear, though more snow is already starting to drift down.
“Thanks for the help,” I say, trying not to stare at the way the exercise has brought a flush to his cheeks. “And for lending me the coat.”
“You know it’s yours for as long as you need it,” he says.
I hide my smile at his protective instinct. “Thanks. I should head inside and get ready for work.”
“Right, of course.” He takes a step back, creating more distance between us. “I should do the same.”
We both hesitate, neither wanting to be the first to leave. Finally, Nate clears his throat. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching as he turns and heads back to his house. Even in retreat, he’s graceful, his long legs carrying him easily through the snow.
Inside my kitchen, I grab my car keys and the container of muffins I baked last night. They’re not quite as fluffy as I’d hoped, but the caramelized pecans on top should make up for it. The familiar scent of cinnamon and maple helps ground me, pulling my thoughts away from broad shoulders and blue eyes.
When I step back outside, Nate is already at his truck, brushing snow off the windshield. He looks up as I approach my car, and for a moment, we just stand there, the morning quiet broken only by the soft pat of snow hitting the ground.
“Drive safe,” he calls over. “The roads might be slick.”
“You too,” I reply, and it hits me how domestic this feels—this morning goodbye in our shared driveway.
As I slide into my car, all I can think is that while kissing Nate might be a bad idea, it’s starting to feel inevitable. Like gravity, pulling us slowly but surely together, no matter how much we try to resist. I start my car and let it warm up, watching as Nate’s truck pulls out of the driveway ahead of me. His taillights glow red through the falling snow, and I wonder if he feels this same magnetic pull, this sense of inevitability.
The drive to Special Blend gives me time to clear my head, or at least attempt to. But every time I adjust my position, I catch the scent of Nate’s coat wrapped around me—a mixture of pine and something uniquely him that makes my stomach flutter. I wonder how many days it will take before his scent fades completely from the fabric and I can no longer breathe in the comforting essence that’s so distinctly Nate.
Friends, I remind myself firmly. We agreed on being friends.
Still, as I park in front of the coffee shop and gather my things, I can’t shake the memory of how perfectly we fit together this morning or the way his eyes darkened when they fell to my lips. The container of muffins feels steady and real in my hands as I unlock the door, grounding me in the present moment and the tasks ahead.
