God, I’m such a liar.
“You like them?” He’s watching my face with an intensity that makes me hyperaware of my surroundings. The heat from the forge. The smell of smoke and metal and him. The way his voice dropped lower on that question, like my answer matters more than it should for a simple commission.
His gaze hasn’t wavered from my face. It hasn’t dropped lower, hasn’t done that thing Owen used to do—that quick, assessing scan that always made me feel like I was failing some invisible test.
Stop imagining things, Sadie.
“I love them.” I reach out and trace one of the petals with my finger. The metal is cool now, smooth. “They’re perfect. What do I owe you?”
“Consider them a gift.”
I look up. “Mateo—“
“You’ve been doing that thing where you don’t charge me full price for books.” He crosses his arms, leaning back against the workbench. “The ‘friends and family discount’ you keep giving me? We’re even.”
There’s something in the way he says “friends and family” that I can’t quite place. Almost like he’s both and neither all at once.
Like he’s waiting for me to catch on to something I’m missing.
Nope. No. I can’t go there. I’m reading into things.
“That’s different. Books don’t take—“ I gesture at the bookends. “This is hours of work. Custom metalwork. You can’t just—”
“I can, actually.” His smile turns teasing. “It’s my forge. I make the rules.”
“Mateo.”
“Sadie.”
We stare at each other. I’m trying to look stern, but the corner of my mouth is betraying me.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But next time—“
“Next time you’ll try to pay me, and I’ll refuse, and we’ll have this exact same conversation.” He’s grinning now. “I know the script.”
Friends and family.That’s what we are. What we’ve always been.
“How’s everything at the shop?” he asks, carefully wrapping the bookends back up.
“Good. Busy.” I shove my hands back in my pockets. “Macy’s excited about book club tonight.”
“Yeah? What are you reading?”
My throat goes dry. “Oh, you know. Romance. The usual.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “You okay? You seem wound up.”
“I’m fine. Just busy.” This lie tastes sour. “You know how book club nights are.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You say that like you’re not proud of that romance section you’ve built. Pretty sure half this town learned to love the genre because of your recommendations.”
“A girl’s allowed to have her guilty pleasures.” Pride warms my chest despite the anxiety still humming under my skin. “Besides, someone has to defend the genre.”
“You do it well.” He hands me the wrapped bookends, and his fingers brush mine.
And linger.
And the contact doesn’t just send a spark up my arm. Nope. No, instead, my whole body betrays me with the most delicious shiver crawling over my skin and between my thighs.
