“And maybe,” I say, tilt my chin, “you like it.”
His jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. For one wild second, it feels like he might grab the float, throw it, grab me, shake me, or kiss me.
I don’t know which would be more devastating.
Behind us, someone whispers loudly:
“Thirty bucks says they kiss before lunch.”
Another voice: “Nah, no way. She’s gonna break first. That librarian’s about to melt.”
Heat floods my face. Ash turns slowly toward his crew, voice sharp: “Don’t you all have work to do?”
They scatter.Poorly.And I hear muffled snickering from behind the engine. Ash turns back to me, exasperation mixing with something else entirely.
“Lucy, I can’t approve this float.”
“And I can’t build a new one.”
“You’re not listening?—”
“No,” I cut in, stepping closer, “you’re not listening.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Try me.”
I jab a finger toward the gingerbread firefighter. “Kids are going to love this. The town is going to love this. The festival is supposed to be fun. Whimsy. Magic.”
“It can be all of those things without turning into a bonfire waiting to happen.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re underreacting.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You spark fires.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“YOU’RE—”
He steps in. Close. Close enough that our bodies don’t touch, but only because he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. His voice drops to a warning murmur. Low.
Firm. Hot enough to melt snow. “Lucy.”
“Ash.”
“You’re pushing me.”
My pulse jumps. “Maybe I want to.”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I’m letting you.”
Oh. Oh no. Oh yes.
I swallow hard. “Well. Good.”
