I pull back from Seth slightly, but still loop my arm through his in case he stumbles again. His hip is still pressed against mine, and that smell is everywhere.
“You okay there?” He’s staring down at me, those blue eyes curious, and for a moment, he seems almost sober. “You went a little pale.”
“Fine. Just tired.” I inject as much confidence into my voice as I can muster. “Come on. Door’s this way.”
We make it through the sticky glass door and out into the cold, which helps. The sharp air cuts through the fog in my head, clears some of that warmth from my system. I take a deep breath, and my heartbeat starts to settle.
“Christ, it’s freezing,” Seth mutters, hunching his shoulders against the wind. Then, inexplicably, he starts humming again. Different song this time.
“Please don’t.”
He ignores me completely, his humming transitioning into actual singing as we make our way down the gravel path toward the main road. His voice isn’t bad, actually—low and rich, with a natural warmth to it—but the volume increases with every step until he’s practically serenading the empty street.
“Oh my God.” I tug at his arm, trying to move faster. “You’re going to wake up the entire town.”
“They should be awake!” He throws his free arm wide. “It’s a beautiful night, June. Look at those stars!”
I glance up automatically. He’s not wrong because the sky is clear, littered with more stars than you’d ever see in a city, the Milky Way a faint smear across the darkness. It’s the kind of sky I’ve seen my whole life and never gotten tired of.
“Very pretty,” I allow. “Now keep your voice down.”
“You know what else is pretty?” He spins, pulling me with him in a clumsy twirl that makes me yelp. “You are. Has anyone told you that? You’re real pretty.”
I stumble out of the spin, grabbing his arm to steady myself. “You’re real drunk.”
“Am not.” He says it with surprising conviction, stopping to face me. We’re in the middle of the road we’re crossing now, streetlights casting orange pools around us, and he’s looking at me with those ridiculous blue eyes like he’s trying to memorize my face. “I don’t drink. Well, I do sometimes, but not usually, and not tonight, and—” He frowns, visibly losing his train of thought. “What was I saying?”
“That you’re not drunk. Very convincing. But on the bright side, you seem like a happy drunk.”
“Thank you.” He beams at me, entirely missing the sarcasm. Then his expression shifts, curiosity replacing confusion. “You smell nice, you know.”
I stiffen. “Stop talking.”
“Like lemons. And honey. And…” He leans in, just slightly, nostrils flaring. “Wildflowers.”
My heart is flipping again—fluttering, more like it—sending warmth through my chest despite the cold. The only explanation as to why he can pick up my scent at all is because my suppressants must be slowly wearing off, seeing as I took them early yesterday morning and now it’s 2:00 a.m. Another reason I shouldn’t have taken this job from Pete.
“Come on. You’re being ridiculous.” I tug at his arm, more urgent now, and we reach the other side of the road. “Car’s just up here.”
But he’s not moving again. He’s still looking at me with that soft, wondering expression, head tilted like he’s trying to figure something out.
“You smell like my scent match,” he says quietly.
I stop walking. Stop breathing, maybe.
“I don’t have one yet,” he continues, and his voice has gone dreamy. “Never found her. Started to think maybe I wouldn’t.But you…” He reaches out, slowly enough that I could stop him if I wanted to, and brushes a curl back from my face. His fingers are warm against my cold cheek. “You smell like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
For a moment, I let myself feel it. The possibility. The pull.
What if he’s right?
What if somewhere, beneath seven years of suppressants and careful denial, there’s something real? His hand lingers on my cheek. His eyes hold mine.
Then he hiccups.
And laughs.
Then sways so dramatically that he nearly takes us both down, grabbing on to my shoulders for balance and laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
