I should say thank you.
I should say come in out of the cold.
I should say literally anything normal.
But that all goes straight out the window because Lucy’s eyes dip to my torso and widen.
Right. I’m shirtless. I forgot I pulled off my dress shirt the moment I got home because it was suffocating me after the near-kiss at the firehouse under the goddamn mistletoe.
We both freeze.
The snow falls harder, silent and slow, dusting her hair and shoulders. Her gaze drags down my chest, stops at my stomach, skims back up. She swallows.
“Uh,” she says, voice barely working. “Sorry. I should’ve texted.”
“You’re fine,” I manage. My voice sounds lower than normal. Rougher. “Come in.”
She hesitates only a second before stepping inside. The warmth hits her immediately — she shivers, brushing snow from her coat sleeve. I take the mittens from her, our fingers brushing, and the contact sears like a live wire.
She licks her lips, nervous. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I just—after the gala—I wasn’t sure she’d need them tomorrow, so?—”
“You’re not interrupting anything.”
Liar.
She interrupts everything.
My thoughts. My balance. My ability to breathe normally.
Lucy steps deeper into the room, hugging her arms to her chest. “I guess I should go…”
“No,” I say too quickly. “Stay. If you want.”
Her breath catches.
“Cocoa?” I ask, nodding toward the kitchen before I talk myself out of it.
For a split second, she searches my face like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m asking as the friendly neighbor… or as the man who nearly kissed her the last time I saw her.
She nods softly. “Yeah. Cocoa sounds nice.”
I turn away so she won’t see the way my jaw flexes with relief.
Making cocoa gives my hands something to do. I boil the milk, add the mix, sprinkle the cinnamon Holly insists on even though she claims she hates it. Lucy wanders to the window, watching the snow fall, her silhouette outlined in the warm yellow light. Her hair still sparkles with melting flakes. She looks beautiful. Too beautiful.
I hand her a mug. Our fingers brush again, and her breath shivers. She looks up at me through her lashes.
“Thank you.”
The words shouldn’t hit as low as they do.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, legs angled, knees almost touching. The fire crackles in the wood stove. Outside, the snow glows under the porch light.
We’re alone. Quiet stretches, thick and warm.
I take a sip, set my mug down. “You did good tonight.”
She laughs. “I didn’t trip once. That’s rare for me.”
