His eyes warmed, but he didn’t move toward me. He didn’t push. He didn’t assume.
“How?” he asked.
“Because,” I said slowly, “I’m not panicking.”
“That’s bad?”
“It’s terrifying,” I said. “And also kind of wonderful. And also—”
I stopped.
Because he was looking at me with a softness I hadn’t seen before, it wasn’t the controlled, careful tenderness he sometimes used around me, but something deeper.
Something that made my breath catch.
“Sienna,” he said quietly, “I like you.”
I blinked. “I know.”
He grunted a low laugh. “Do you?”
“Yes. I mean—yes, obviously. You flirt with me like… like you’re immune to consequences.”
“I’m not,” he said.
That sent a ripple through my chest.
“I’m falling for you,” he said softly.
The words hit me hard.
“And I know you’re scared,” he added. “I know you’re trying not to run.”
My throat tightened. “I don’t want to run.”
His entire expression shifted.
I wasn’t sure who leaned in first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Maybe the gravity between us finally hit its tipping point. But suddenly he was closer, merely inches away, with his knee brushing mine and his breath warming my cheek.
The wind rustled the early leaves above us. The lake shimmered in the distance. Somewhere far away, someone laughed.
But here, in this moment, there was only him.
Carson Reed.
The man who reorganized gear sheds and packed surprise lunches and looked at me like staying still wasn’t scary at all.
“I don’t want to run,” I whispered again.
His gaze traced my mouth, slow and reverent.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t want you to.”
My heart leaped, and right then, sitting on the warm blanket, spring sunlight brushing our skin, his fingers just barely grazing mine, I realized the most dangerous truth of all:
I was falling for him.
Hard.
