He exhales sharply through his nose—almost a laugh, if he’d ever admit to laughing.
He wouldn’t.
He holds up a peach. “This one’s mush.”
I take it. “Because you’re squeezing it like you’re testing a hose line.”
He grunts.
I set the peach down and pick up another. “You want one that gives a little when you press it. Not too hard, not too soft.”
He watches my fingers press into the skin. “Like this,” I say as he watches intently.
What a mistake.
His eyes darken, locked on my hands, following the gentle roll of the peach in my palm like it’s something filthy.
“Soft,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “but not too soft.”
My breath catches.
His gaze lifts—and holds me entirely still. He’s not looking at the peach anymore. He’s looking at me. At my mouth.
Again.
Heat curls low in my belly. I force a swallow. “Exactly.”
He steps closer. Not much. Just a few inches. But the aisle feels too small suddenly. Too warm. Too full of him.
“Show me again,” he says.
The words hit me somewhere they shouldn’t.
“It’s just peaches,” I say lamely.
“Didn’t ask about peaches.”
My pulse stumbles.
I try for breezy confidence and fail. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The staring thing.”
He doesn’t blink. “Maybe I like what I’m staring at.”
My knees go weak. “Captain?—”
“Saxon.” He corrects me quietly, firmly. “Say it.”
I absolutely should not.
“Saxon,” I whisper.
He inhales like the sound hits him somewhere deep. Then he steps in. Just enough our arms almost brush. “Good girl.”
My thighs press together instinctively. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t need to. The wrongness of it—public, inappropriate, charged—makes my skin buzz.
