His mouth curves. “Three. If we’re telling the truth.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Why?”
He drags a hand over the back of his neck. The motion lifts his jacket just enough to reveal the worn hem of his gray t-shirt and the bracket of muscle at his hip. I look away before I stare like an idiot.
“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says simply.
“I was okay the first time.”
“Didn’t feel like enough.”
Oh. Okay. That lands low and warm.
“Also,” he adds, eyes flicking to the porch light, “your light’s dirty. That can cause a flicker.”
“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Not… dirt.”
His mouth twitches. “You need a ladder?”
“I have a chair.”
“Chairs aren’t ladders.”
“They are if you believe in them,” I say, and the corner of his mouth actually,actuallylifts.
“Get your boots, Savannah,” he says, low.
The way he says my name steals heat from my hands and puts it—unhelpfully—elsewhere.
“Fine. Bossy.” I turn to go in.
He clears his throat. “Lock the door behind you.”
I pause, hand on the knob. “Is the neighborhood dangerous?”
“Only if you invite trouble onto the porch.”
“And who would that be?”
His eyes hold mine. Heavy. Hot. “Me.”
The word slices the air clean. My pulse hops. I shut the door because he told me to and because I need thirty seconds of wood between us to reset my breathing.
Boots. Jacket. Beanie. I open the door again and he’s still there, one hand braced on the rail now, head tipped back to watch the valley. He can be perfectly still in a way that used to make me crazy—like a coiled spring disguised as a statue.
“Approved attire?” I ask.
He gives me a slow once-over that feels like a warm hand down my spine. “Better.”
“Good. Because I’m not losing toes for your kink about footwear.”
He coughs into his fist. “Not a kink.”
“So you say.”
He looks like he’s choosing between laughing and throwing me over his shoulder. He doesn’t do either. “Show me your ladder-chair.”
I bring the chair out. He stares at it like it insulted his heritage. “That chair’s older than both of us.”
