Hold her eyes.
And let the truth sit between us like a live line.
“Maybe I don’t mind,” I say.
Her breath stutters.
For a second, the studio feels too small. Too warm. Like the air’s thickening into something dangerous.
Then she clears her throat and forces brightness back into her voice. “Well. I mind. Because if the town thinks you’re helping me, they might think you’re… nice.”
I smirk. “Can’t have that.”
“No.” She shakes her head solemnly. “It would ruin your whole vibe.”
I lean back on my heels, gaze dragging over her slowly, deliberately—letting her feel it.
“What vibe is that?” I ask.
She swallows, then lifts her chin like she’s brave. “Grumpy. Sarcastic. Broody. Scary.”
I tilt my head. “Scary?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Back up. “A little.”
I stand, closing the space again, and this time I let my hand settle on the wall beside her head—not touching her, just there, a quiet reminder of how easily I could.
Her cheeks flush.
I lower my voice. “You should be scared of the wiring,” I murmur. “Not me.”
Her lips part.
She whispers, “Maybe I’m scared of both.”
For a heartbeat, I consider kissing her right there—consider teaching her exactly what she’s playing with.
Instead, I step back again, because I’m not a man who loses control in the morning.
Not yet.
“Go make coffee,” I tell her gruffly. “And stop hovering. You’re distracting.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Distracting?”
I glance at her, dead serious. “Firefly, you walked into my workshop with paint on your face and sunshine in your smile. You’ve been distracting since the second you showed up.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
She tries for sass. Fails. “Fine. I’ll make coffee. And I’ll… not hover.”
“Good.”
She turns toward the kitchenette, still flustered, still glowing, and I watch her for one second too long.
Because Saxon can order me to fix the wiring all he wants.
But he didn’t order the way Ember Price is starting to feel like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever been near.
