Before I can talk myself out of it—before logic or guilt or good sense can intervene—I’m moving.Drawn to her like gravity’s got a personal vendetta.
Every step closer, the scent gets stronger.
Sugar.
Vanilla.
Warmth.
She still smells like the bakery.
Like home.
I walk up behind her, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off her body, close enough to breathe her in like I’ve been starving for it.
“Need a hand?”I say softly, my voice low and rough with sixteen years of missing her.
She goes still.
Absolutely, utterly still.
And for a heartbeat—everything in the world falls quiet.
ChapterSeven
Adrianna
Of course,the red spray paint Mom needs is on the highest dang shelf in the whole dang hardware store.
Because why wouldn’t it be?
I stretch onto my tiptoes—because that’s as far as God blessed me in the height department—and reach.And reach.And reach.
Nothing.
I am so focused on not falling over and embarrassing myself that I don’t notice him behind me.
Not until he’s close.
Too close.
Close enough that his body heat brushes my back and raises goosebumps along my arms.
Close enough that something deep inside my chest recognizes him before my brain catches up.
Then he speaks.
“Need a hand?”
His voice.
Deep.Smooth.Familiar in a way that hits like a punch to the sternum.
My whole body goes still.
Frozen.
Panic-sparked.
