“You care about everything.”
“Not this.”
“Yes, you do.”
His eyes burn. “If I let you start touching me, I won’t be able to stop you.”
I freeze.
He freezes.
The whole firehouse goes silent.
Then Boone loudly whispers, “Oh my God.”
The coordinator claps her hands. “Perfect! Sexual tension sells calendars!”
“Ma’am,” Ash snaps, “please stop talking.”
I swallow hard, grab the Santa hat, and avoid looking at his chest as I step closer.
“Ash,” I murmur, “just let me help.”
He exhales through his nose. “Fine. One minute.”
I lift the hat, but my hands shake.
He notices immediately. “Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“Calm down.”
“I’m calm.”
“You’re trembling.”
“No, I’m—” My voice cracks. “Completely fine.”
His mouth curves—not a smile, but something darker. “You’re flustered.”
“You’re not special. Everyone would be flustered.”
“Uh-huh.”
He tilts his head, eyes drifting down my face, to my mouth. Damn it. Focus. I reach up to place the Santa hat on his head. I have to stretch onto my toes to reach, and that moves me closer— Too close. His breath grazes my cheek. His chest rises, brushing lightly against mine.
My hand slips, fingers brushing the back of his neck. He inhales sharply.
“Lucy,” he warns.
I yank my hand back like I touched a live wire. “Right. Sorry.”
The photographer laughs. “You two are killing me. Ash, lose the tension. Lucy—uh—keep doing what you’re doing.”
Ash turns his glare on the photographer. “Do you want to lose a tooth?”
“Wow,” I murmur. “So festive.”
