I grab the pocket door, and his hand covers mine.
The laughter is close.
Female voices.
Maybe three.
Right outside this door.
“We can come up with a good excuse.” I straighten my shorts and curse myself for not wearing a bra. “We bumped into each other. What a coincidence. Or better yet, you were here making a snack, and I found you.”
I turn to him, and he grabs my arm and pulls me through a door.
I don’t even have a second to guess where we’re going until my heels skid on descending stairs.
Cash’s body blocks my fall, his chest catching me. His boots thud as he backpedals, shuffling down a step or two, and perching me on the top step.
He pulls the door shut, and we’re swallowed in darkness, on stairs, to a basement, I assume.
Everything sharpens at once.
His hand is on my hip. Fingers spread. His body angled into mine, holding me to the door. He’s not crushing me, but he’s close enough that I register every detail I shouldn’t have time for.
Heat.
Breath.
The rise and fall of his chest.
His feet planted on different steps keeping us balanced. Ready.
The smell hits next, and it’s wrong.
Not damp. Not mold or dust or that sour, old-house basement rot I’m braced for. Instead, there’s something floral and faint. Lavender, maybe. Or roses.
It throws me off more than the dark.
This is a Victorian home. It should smell like stone and spiders and cold pipes.
“Cash?”
His fingers press against my mouth. “Shhh.”
Warm. Firm. Delicious.
Don’t lick them.
Do notlick them.
I hold my breath.
“I mean, he’s lovely.” I recognize Zoe’s voice.
Or is it Zara’s? I can’t tell them apart.
“But you can tell he keeps part of himself locked away.”
Jaclyn’s voice hums in agreement. “After what happened, can you blame him?”
