“Why?”
“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and sure, “I won’t stop at ‘mine.’”
My stomach flips. “Next time,” I shoot back softly, “don’t lock the door.”
He smirks. “Wasn’t me.”
Mrs. Dottie claps her hands excitedly behind us. “Oh, this is better than the raffle!”
I walk back toward the main hall, heart pounding, cheeks flushed, entire body humming with everything we didn’t finish in that closet.
Fake dating was supposed to be simple.
But the way he saidI don’t share?
The way he saidmine?
That wasn’t performance.
And when the door closes again someday—because I know it will—I’m not sure either of us will be walking out pretending we’re still playing by the rules.
Chapter 8
Levi
The church ladies insist the Spring Gala needs “elegance.”
Which is how I end up in the firehouse rec room the following Thursday night, staring at Sadie Marshall in a fitted black dress while Mrs. Dottie Henderson claps like we’re auditioning for a mountain version ofDancing with the Stars.
“Posture, Lieutenant!” Mrs. Dottie barks. “This is a waltz, not a rescue extraction.”
“I know how to lead,” I mutter.
Sadie’s mouth curves. “Debatable.”
The firehouse crew has vacated under the guise of “equipment checks,” which means they’re probably eavesdropping from the apparatus bay.
Mrs. Dottie cues up a dramatic instrumental version of something that sounds suspiciously like a 90s love ballad.
“Hand at her waist,” she instructs.
I step forward. Sadie doesn’t retreat. My palm settles at her hip. Heat spreads instantly.
She inhales sharply. Covers it with a bright, “Ready, Lieutenant?”
“Always.”
Her fingers lace into mine. Her other hand slides up to my shoulder. It feels too natural. Too familiar.
Mrs. Dottie begins counting. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”
We move and Sadie’s body follows mine like it remembers. Her eyes flick up to mine, playful and challenging all at once.
“You’re stiff,” she murmurs.
“You’re distracting.”
“Professional answer.”
