“Really.”
I stare at him. Big. Stoic. Infuriating. Impossible. And doing something unexpected:
Compromising.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Then… help me fix it.”
His eyes widen a fraction. You would’ve thought I just asked him to strip naked in the town square. He clears his throat. “Fix it?”
“Yes.”
“As in… work together?”
“Yes.”
“On a gingerbread firefighter.”
“Yes, Ash.”
He drags a hand down his face like I’ve aged him ten years. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is a mistake.”
“Probably,” I say, “but so is eating grocery store sushi and people survive that.”
He glares. “This is not the same.”
“You’re avoiding my point.”
“And you’re avoiding reality.”
“Which is?”
He leans in, voice rough, low, meant only for me.
“That getting closer to you is dangerous.”
My breath stutters. “For who?”
“For me.”
The world stops.
The snow. The float. The crew snickering behind the engine. All of it disappears.
“You think I’m dangerous?” I whisper.
“I know you are.”
“How?”
He doesn’t hesitate. Not even a second. “Because I can feel you, Lucy.” His voice is low enough to make my stomach drop.“Every time you walk into a room. Every time you argue with me. Every time you smile. I feel it.”
My knees nearly buckle.
“And I don’t want to feel anything I can’t control,” he finishes quietly.
I swallow hard. “And this? You can’t control this?”
His eyes darken to something heat-heavy and undeniable.
