My head snaps around. Drake stands there, gold flames curling along his cheek. His grin is gone, though, and his eyes are serious.
Flint’s jaw flexes, suspicion flashing across his face. “You?”
“Me.” Drake’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge of challenge in it. “You’ve got your hands full, Chief. Don’t worry, your sister’s safe with me.”
The words roll through me like smoke and heat. Too much heat.
Flint hesitates, Seraphina tugging on his sleeve with another hiccup. With a muttered curse, he steers her towards the kitchen. “Fine. But dragon boy—” His eyes cut back to Drake. “Behave.”
My brother knows me better than anyone. He doesn’t need to challenge any guy to behave around me. I don’t date. I haven’t dated since my husband left me ten years ago. It’s just… too painful.
“Come on, pumpkin.” Drake offers his arm like somekind of cocky green-faced gentleman. “Let’s get you home before you turn into soup.”
Chapter Eight
EMBER
Drake’s truck looms like a beast at the curb, all black steel and chrome. Of course he drives something this tall. Men like him don’t do sensible hatchbacks; they drive vehicles you need a ladder to climb into.
Which is exactly my problem.
I stand there, padded pumpkin belly puffing out, one crutch wedged under my arm, the other slipping on the asphalt. My thighs swish in my orange tights every time I shift. There is no universe where this ends gracefully.
Drake opens the passenger door for me, a satisfied grin etched across his smudged green face under the streetlight.
I stare at the seat and lift my leg, but it’s too high for my five-foot-four frame. “Do you have a stepladder in the back by any chance?”
“Need a hand, pumpkin?” He offers me a hand, but I bat it away.
“I’ve got this.” I attempt to hoistmyself up, foot slipping, crutch clattering against the side panel. My padded middle wedges against the seat like an inflatable life raft. The harder I wriggle, the louder Drake chuckles.
“Stop laughing,” I grumble, half suffocated by polyester stuffing.
“I’m not laughing,” he lies, stepping in close. His large hands wrap around my waist and, with humiliating ease, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing and deposits me in the passenger seat.
My breath hitches. His does too, just for a second. Then he clears his throat and reaches across me.
“Seatbelt.”
“I can do it,” I snap, tugging at the strap. Only the stupid costume padding blocks my arms, and the buckle might as well be in another zip code, buried under orange polyester.
His fingers brush mine as he clicks it into place with one smooth motion. “There. Safe and secure, pumpkin.”
Mortification burns through me. “Great. Next you’ll be handing me a juice box.”
He grins, close enough that I catch the mix of soap on his skin. “Only if you’re a good girl.”
I glare, cheeks flaming. “This suit is the problem. I should’ve just taken it off.”
His gaze drops, slow and hot. “What’s underneath?”
“Don’t you dare.” My voice squeaks. “Just tights and a top.”
His grin spreads, wicked. “I’ve seen worse. Your—what was it? That pink pyjama short set with flying cartoon cats all over it?”
My stomach lurches. “You saw that?”
“Hard to forget a woman ranting about calendars, sparks, and October, wearing cat shorts.”
