“We did not cheat.”
“Oh, so you conveniently winning every major challenge was totally fair? And my guy’s equipment always seemed to be broken or have holes in or something?”
He looks taken back. Did he not know that?
“Irrelevant. We were better.”
I scowl at him.
He grins back and suddenly, I remember exactly why we clashed so much over the summer. Troy Hawkins is annoyingly competitive, impossibly smug, and very, very hard to ignore.
I finish my donut. It’s really freakin’ good and I think the sugar has made me feel a little better, actually.
Which, annoyingly, means I can’t pretend to still be eating while Troy is standing there, grinning like he just single-handedly saved me from starvation.
He dusts sugar off his hands and stretches, rolling his shoulders. The sweatshirt lifts.
He shrugs, stepping closer. “Or maybe I’m just a good person who’s noticed you’re a bit stressed out and could probably use someone to look out for you.”
That catches me off guard, my head roars. Henoticed? He noticed that I’m stressed?
I cover the tiny stutter in my breath with a scoff. “I have a handle on it, Troy, but if you insist, you can take that one into the back.” I point to a nearby box of extra copies of mystery novels.
He laughs, low and warm, but doesn’t push.
Instead, he grabs the box like it weighs nothing and lifts it easily onto his shoulder, muscles flexing just slightly as he adjusts it.
I cross my arms, pretending not to be impressed.Not pretending,I am not impressed.
…Okay, maybe a little. But he doesn’t need to know that.
For the next thirty minutes, Troy actually helps. Like, really helps.
He lifts boxes. Sorts inventory. Stacks things neatly without me even asking. He’s shockingly competent. I assumed he’d be all talk, all show, mostly just here to get on my nerves. He needs to stop surprising me like this. I’m watching him easily maneuver through tasks, his muscles flexing under his sweatshirt, his stupid perfect arms handling heavy boxes like they’re light as air.
I hate that I’m aware of all of this. I hate it even more that my traitorous brain decides to picture what he’d look like without the sweatshirt entirely.
For the past thirty minutes, I’ve done a terrible job of ignoring the fact that Troy Hawkins looks unfairly good lifting heavy things.
The bookstore is quiet except for the lo-fi beats playingsoftly from my phone, the steady rhythm usually enough to keep me focused.
But right now, focus is hard when every time Troy reaches for something, his sleeves pull up just enough to reveal his forearms. And goddamn. He’s got the kind of arms that belong in a training montage, the kind that make people goferalon the internet.
I clear my throat aggressively.
“You’re actually… kind of useful,” I say begrudgingly.
Troy grins. “High praise, Mittens.”
I roll my eyes, turning to grab the last box that needs moving and I make a mistake. It’s heavier than I expect—my grip slips, my arms strain, my breath catches.
And before I can even react, Troy is there.
He steps in behind me, effortlessly catching the other side of the box, his hands bracketing mine.
I go completely still. He’s close. Too close. His chest brushes my back, solid and warm through his sweatshirt. I can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint brush of fabric against my bare arms.
His hands don’t just grab the box, they cover mine and suddenly, the weight of the box is nothing compared to the weight of his touch.
