Saxon tears his gaze away from my shirt long enough to swallow again. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
He guides me toward the locker room—not touching, but close enough his body heat cuts through the chill. Once we’re inside, he shuts the door behind us. And the second itclicks closed, the air shifts. Thickens. He steps closer. Slow. Controlled.
“Saxon,” I whisper.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I lie.
He looks at me—really looks.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
I inhale sharply. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it.”
My pulse mutinies. “Your crew saw.”
“Don’t care.”
I choke on a laugh. “They’re going to tease you for weeks.”
“Let them.”
“Saxon—”
“No,” he says, stepping closer, “you don’t get it.”
I stop breathing.
“You show up here,” he murmurs, voice low and dark, “with your kid and your cookies and your little clay moose?—”
“That was Junie,” I cut in.
“—and you smile at me,” he continues, ignoring me, “and I can’t think straight for the rest of the damn day.”
I blink.
He leans down slightly. “And then you get drenched and look like?—”
He stops. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
“Look like what?” I ask, breathless.
He exhales sharply. “Like trouble.”
My heart pounds so loud it echoes in my ears. “Saxon?—”
“Don’t say my name right now,” he growls.
“Why not?”
“Because if you do, I’m going to forget we’re standing in the middle of my locker room at work.”
