“I’m literally three inches away.”
“Closer.”
I huff. “Maybe just carry me, then.”
He stops walking and turns slowly.
“Don’t tempt me,” he says.
A shudder of pleasure runs through me at the thought.
The drive is a blur of snow and tension.
Inside the truck, the heater blasts warm air. Snow ricochets off the windshield. The world outside disappears into blinding white. Ash keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on the console—but close enough that if I moved even an inch, my fingers would brush his. We drive in thick, electric silence.
“Ash?” I ask softly.
“Hm.”
“Why did you really come?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
“I want this one.”
His grip tightens on the wheel. “Fine,” he mutters. “Because I couldn’t sit at the firehouse wondering if you were okay.”
“Ash—”
“Because the storm got worse faster than it should have, and I panicked.”
“You panicked?”
“I said don’t repeat it.” I bite my lip.
“And,” he adds quietly, “because I didn’t want you scared and alone.”
My chest aches. “Ash…”
“Lucy.” His voice drops again. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I want to.”
“Then wait until we’re inside.”
The wind howls. The tension in the truck crackles so thick I could reach out and touch it. And for the first time since moving to Devil’s Peak, I realize something terrifying: I trust him.
With everything.
We pull into the parking lot and Ash kills the engine twenty minutes later. Snow swirls under the floodlights. He turns to me. “Inside,” he says softly. “Come on.”
He opens his door, then rounds to my side before I can even manage the handle. Gentlemanly. Bossy. Both. He scoops the duffel off the seat before I can reach for it.
“Ash,” I protest, “I can carry my own bag.”
“Don’t care.”
“You are?—”
