Every head turns toward the door.
Dean Beckett stands in my entrance like he stepped out of a recruitment poster for Grumpy Authority Figures Who Mean Business.
My son’s boss. Twin Waves’ fire chief.
I haven’t seen him since Michelle’s coffee shop where we had an awkward conversation about occupancy limits I didn’t understand.
I understand now.
He’s wearing his official uniform, steel-blue eyes scanning the room, taking in every blocked exit, every violation. His jaw is set in a hard line that somehow makes him look intimidating and?—
No. Stop that, Jo.
Behind him sits the most beautiful German Shepherd I’ve ever seen.
“Chief Beckett.” My voice comes out bright despite my pulse picking up speed. “What a lovely surprise?—“
“I know what you’re having.” His voice is calm, measured, terrifying. Deeper than I remember. Rougher. The kind of voice that probably sounds even better first thing in the morning?—
Stop. It.
“I received three separate complaints about overcrowding. Three. In twenty minutes.” Those impossibly blue eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. “Your exit is blocked by a cardboard cutout of a shirtless man, and you have approximately thirty people in a space rated for a maximum occupancy of”—he consults a notebook, and I notice his hands. Strong. Capable—“fifteen.”
The number lands like a bomb.
“Now wait just a minute—“ I start toward him, glue gun still in hand.
I don’t see the ribbon on the floor.
The pink satin ribbon I flung across the room earlier with such dramatic flair.
My foot slips. I’m falling forward, arms windmilling, and I’m about to face-plant into my son’s boss when?—
Dean catches me.
His hands close around my upper arms, steadying me with reflexes born from running into burning buildings. The grip is firm. Sure. His fingers span almost the entire width of my biceps, and even through my t-shirt, I can feel the heat of his palms.
He’s solid. Warm. Smells like smoke and pine and something that makes my brain short-circuit.
We’re standing too close. Close enough to see his pupils dilate slightly. Close enough to count the silver threads in his dark hair. Close enough to notice the faint scar above his left eyebrow.
His breath is warm against my forehead.
My hands are pressed flat against his chest where I grabbed his shirt, and oh dear, that’s his heartbeat. Strong and steady and just a little bit fast.
Our gazes collide.
For one suspended, breathless moment, the boutique falls away. There’s just his hands on my arms—tight enough to steady me, gentle enough not to hurt—and my hands on his chest, and the way we’re both suddenly very still.
His eyes aren’t just blue. They’re storm-cloud blue. Tempest blue. The kind that makes you think about what it might feel like to run my finger through his hair and?—
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for a second. Just long enough for my breath to catch and my lips to part and something hot and electric to arc between us like lightning.
Then he’s looking at the glue gun, and the moment shatters.
“Mrs. Lennox?—“
