“Careful,” Levi says from behind me.
Tyler grins. “See? Territorial.”
Levi’s arm slides more firmly around my waist.
“Observant,” he corrects.
I tilt my head back slightly to look at him.
“You’re enjoying this,” I murmur.
He lowers his mouth closer to my ear. “I’m enjoying that you’re still here.”
The bass from the speakers vibrates through the concrete floor. Someone drags out folding tables. Someone else starts pouring sparkling cider like this is a wedding reception preview.
Mrs. Dottie corners me with a clipboard.
“We’ll need color palettes,” she announces.
“Color palettes?” I repeat.
“For the ceremony, darling.”
“Mrs. Dottie?—”
She leans closer. “You think we’re not hosting this at the firehouse?”
I glance around at the decorated engine bays. She’s absolutely serious. Levi appears beside me again, like he has a radar for church lady ambushes.
“She doesn’t need a committee,” he says calmly.
Mrs. Dottie narrows her eyes. “Every bride needs a committee.”
“I don’t,” I protest.
“You will,” she insists.
Levi leans down slightly, lips brushing my ear. “You want to elope instead?”
The suggestion sends a dangerous thrill through me.
“And rob Mrs. Dottie of her moment?” I whisper back.
He smirks. The crew begins chanting something about bachelor parties. My dad pretends not to hear it. I find myself laughing more than I have in weeks. The tension from the gala, the bidding, the hallway—all of it dissolves into something lighter here. Safer. But not less intense.
Levi’s thumb traces slow circles at my hip while we stand there, subtle enough no one comments.
“You’re still my sexy little hotshot,” he murmurs quietly.
The nickname hits me in the chest.
I grin up at him. “And you’re still playing with fire.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The crowd continues around us—music, laughter, clinking glasses—but the space between us sharpens.
“You nervous?” he asks.
