“Not good,” he says. “Very not good.”
“I disagree.”
“Shocking.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re distracting.”
There it is again. That word. Spoken rough and raw and without hesitation.
I inhale sharply. “Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being that.”
“I’m not?—”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “You are.”
My knees wobble.
He reaches out—just barely—fingertips grazing the edge of the float behind me like he needs something to hold on to. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. His restraint is worse than contact. Better. Hotter. Dangerous.
“Ash…” My voice breaks, embarrassingly soft.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. Slow. Deliberate. That look alone could knock me off my feet harder than falling off a thirty-foot ladder.
Someone behind us whispers:
“They’re doing that stare thing again.”
Another voice: “Ten bucks says they make out by the time the sun sets tonight.”
Ash snaps, without looking away from me, “I can hear you.”
The crew laughs and I breathe out shakily. “So what now? You cancel the float?”
His gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes, and I swear the air tightens around us.
“I don’t want to cancel it,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He takes a slow breath. “I want it safe.”
I blink again. “Safe?”
“You heard me.”
“You don’t… hate it?”
He looks at the gingerbread firefighter, then back at me. “I hate the wiring,” he says. “And the frosting. And the gumdrops. And the questionable structural integrity.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay?—”
“But,” he adds, stepping impossibly closer, “I don’t hate the idea.”
Shock slips through me. “Really?”
