He falls into stride anyway. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. Just said we’re headed the same way.”
We make it halfway down the sidewalk before I veer sharply toward the store.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Firefly,” he calls.
I don’t look back. I don’t slow down.
But every step burns with the awareness that the men of Devil’s Peak are watching.
Especially my sexy, grumpy neighbor from hell.
Chapter Five
Boone
I show up at her doorstep at eight in the morning with a tool bag in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other, and I already regret every life choice that led me here.
Not because I don’t want to be here.
Because I do.
That’s the problem.
Her little studio-house sits next to mine like it’s trying to pretend it belongs—fresh paint on the trim, a new wreath already hanging crooked on the door, and a string of lights she definitely doesn’t need and absolutely insisted on anyway. The morning sun hits the snow and turns the whole street into a damn postcard.
I knock once. Then again, because I’m not a patient man and she’s a menace.
The door swings open a beat later, and Ember Price stands there barefoot in a pair of fuzzy socks that have little paint splatters on them like she couldn’t even commit to being cozy without making it artistic.
Her hair’s a mess. A bun that’s losing the war with the elastic. A smudge of blue on her cheek. Oversized sweatshirt. Sleepy eyes.
And I’m immediately aware of my own body like it’s betraying me.
“Boone?” she says, blinking like she’s not sure I’m real. Then her gaze drops to my hands. “Why are you holding coffee like you’re a functional adult?”
“I can be functional,” I say. “Sometimes. When the situation demands it.”
She leans a shoulder against the doorframe, squinting at me. “It’s eight.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re… early.”
“I’m on time,” I correct. “You’re late.”
She snorts. “I’m in my house.”
I lift the coffee cup slightly. “How was your morning bowl of Cheerios?”
Her expression goes blank.
Then confused.
Then her eyes narrow like she’s putting pieces together and doesn’t like the picture they make.
“What?” she demands.
I hold my face perfectly straight. “Your cereal. Your champion breakfast. You know. Since you needed milk at eleven o’clock last night.”
