I grit my teeth. “On. The. Bed. Not in any kind of romantic?—”
She snorts. “Wow. Thank you for clarifying.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Christ.”
She laughs softly, stepping around me to pull back the blanket. She sits gingerly on the edge and tests the mattress.
“…Okay,” she admits. “Fine. It’s amazing.”
“Told you.”
She kicks off her boots, then glances up at me. “Aren’t you getting in?”
My body reacts immediately. My brain reacts late.
“Not with you staring at me,” I mutter.
She flushes and tosses herself back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “Fine. I won’t look.”
I strip off my jacket. My sweatshirt. Leaving me in a fitted black T-shirt that clings from the heat of the firehouse.
I see her eyes flicker. Even though she “isn’t looking.”
I climb onto the bed cautiously, staying as far from her as physically possible—which ends up being maybe three inches since the bed isn’t exactly king-sized.
Lucy immediately rolls onto her side to face me.
“Stop,” I say.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me.”
“You didn’t tell me I had to face the wall.”
“Face the wall.”
She laughs. “No.”
I stare at the ceiling. Hard. “Lucy?—”
“Ash.”
Another stalemate.
Her voice softens. “I’m not trying to make this hard.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She shifts closer—just a fraction—but I feel it like a seismic event.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs.
“You’re trouble.”
