I move closer, guiding his hands to the pitcher, my fingers brushing his knuckles. He’s warm. Solid. My stomach flips like I’m sixteen again and standing too close to him behind the bleachers.
“Slow,” I murmur. “Don’t rush it.”
He watches my mouth when I talk.
“Like this?” he asks, pouring.
Milk splashes everywhere, including on us.
I gasp. “Dax!”
He laughs, the deep sound causing my heart to flip-flop in my chest. Foam drips onto the counter. “You said slow, not graceful.”
“You’re impossible.” I grab a towel, but he’s already lifting the hem of his shirt.
“Don’t—” I start.
Too late.
The shirt comes off.
I freeze.
Oh.
Oh no.
He’s all muscle and lines and familiar scars I’ve seen a hundred times without ever reallyseeing. Steam curls around us, the café suddenly too small, too quiet.
My ovaries stage a full rebellion.
“You okay, Red?” he asks, innocent and absolutely not.
I clear my throat. “You’re… dripping.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins. “Foam does that.”
I swat at him with the towel, laughing too loud, too breathless. “You’re banned from touching expensive equipment.”
“Worth it,” he says.
The bell above the door chimes then, sharp and perfectly timed.
Mail.
My smile falters.
The mailman drops the stack on the counter, nods at Dax, tips his hat at me. And there it is—right on top.
The red envelope.
My heart stutters.
Dax notices immediately. Of course he does. He notices everything.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I hesitate.
