Sadie reaches for a fresh tray of cupcakes just as a gust of mountain wind whips through the lot.
The cheap folding booth shudders. I clock it a split second before it gives.
“Sadie—”
The front leg buckles. The table tilts. Flour bags tumble. Cupcakes launch like edible projectiles. And the entire booth collapses inward. I move without thinking.
I grab her around the waist and pull her down as the folding table flips, trays clattering against metal poles. A cloud of flour explodes into the air like smoke from a blown hose line.
We hit the ground hard. The world goes white. Something lands against my back with a dull thud. I brace my forearm beside her head, shielding her from a falling rack of baked goods. Flour drifts down slowly around us like snow. When the noise settles, all I can hear is her breathing, fast and shaky.
We’re trapped beneath the overturned table. My body cages hers against the asphalt. Her palms press against my chest. Flour coats her hair, her lashes, the curve of her cheek. There’s frosting smeared near her mouth. A smashed cupcake squishes under my knee. From somewhere above us, I hear Mrs. Dottie gasp dramatically. “Oh my stars!”
But down here, under the table, it’s just us.
Sadie blinks up at me through a haze of flour.
“Hi,” she says softly.
My pulse slams. “You okay?”
She nods. “Are you?”
“Fine.” A tray shifts against my shoulder. I adjust, leaning closer. Too close. Her fingers tighten in my shirt.
Flour streaks my forearms. Frosting smears across my biceps. I can feel the heat of her body through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.
“You always did have dramatic timing,” she whispers.
I stare down at her. There’s frosting at the corner of her mouth. I swipe my thumb across it without thinking. The touch is slow. Deliberate. Her breath stutters. I bring my thumb up and lick the frosting off.
Her eyes darken instantly. “You did not just?—”
“Waste good frosting?” I murmur.
Her throat works as she swallows. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re staring.”
She shifts slightly beneath me. The movement drags her hip against mine. My control frays.
“You’re heavy,” she says, but her voice isn’t annoyed.
“Should I move?”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt again. “No.”
Silence thickens.
Flour coats her collarbone. A streak of pink frosting slides slowly down toward the neckline of her shirt. My gaze follows it. Her breath grows uneven.
“Levi,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“This doesn’t look very fake.”
The words land between us. Sharp. Dangerous. My pulse goes feral.
