He turns. And when his eyes land on me, something flickers—heat, annoyance, something too dangerous to name.
“Lucy.” His voice is low. Gravel. “What are you doing here?”
“I volunteer. Remember?”
“I remember you volunteering me for a snow cannon attack.”
“You walked into the blast.”
“You aimed it at me.”
My lips twitch. “Debatable.”
His gaze sweeps my face, lingering too long, lingering in a way that makes my pulse skip.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “Just… stay out of the staging area.”
“Too late,” I say brightly. “I’m literally the staging area.”
He drags both hands down his face like he’s praying for strength.
God, he’s pretty when he suffers.
The coordinator rushes over, thrusting a Santa hat at me. “Lucy, perfect! We need help with the December shot. Ash refuses to take direction.”
Ash growls. “I’m right here.”
“Exactly,” she says cheerfully. “And you’re impossible. So Lucy is handling you now.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Oh hell.
Ash’s glare swings to me. “No.”
“Yes!” the coordinator chirps. “Lucy, position him!”
Position him.
The words alone almost combust my nervous system.
Ash folds his arms—now making his biceps bulge in a way that should be illegal—and says, “Don’t even think about touching me.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “I have to adjust your pose.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, towering over me, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
“Lucy,” he says quietly, “I’m warning you.”
I look straight up at him, refusing to back down. “Ash, it’s for charity.”
“I don’t care.”
