He snorted before he could stop himself. And just like that, the tension shifted–or repurposed. They fell into the work easily enough. He hauled the heavier boxes while she checked and sorted with ruthless efficiency, occasionally holding up some ancient relic.
“That makes three broken lamps,” he noted when yet another one popped out of a box.
“I’m sure they’re not completely broken. They might just need minor repairs.”
“They are all one wire away from arson.”
Her laugh, bright and unguarded, twisted something in his chest. Dust clung to her hair, a faint smudge streaked across her cheek, and he had to physically stop himself from reaching out and wiping it away. He told himself it was the stuffy room making his skin tight. The long day was what made it so damn hard not to reach for her and see what it would feel like to hold her. Definitely not her bending to lift a box and muttering under her breath when it proved heavier than expected.
He was beside her instantly. “I’ve got it.”
“I can lift things,” she protested.
“Sure you can. Not this particular one, though.” Their fingers brushed for half a second too long. That spark again.
And he wasn’t the only one who felt it.
They both became suddenly very aware of the size of the space and how close they were standing in it. Her heart raced, and if she could hear his, she’d find it was doing the same. She looked at him, gave him a half-smile, turned too fast—
—and hit the edge of a low storage crate with her heel.
“Damn it—”
She tipped backward, balance gone, but he caught her before she could fall. One arm locked around her waist, the other braced against a shelf behind her head so she wouldn’t crack into it. And he held her there. Close. Tight.
For a second, neither of them breathed.
Her hands had fisted in his shirt at his chest. His grip at her hips tightened reflexively as heat seeped between them. Her scent thickened, her heart sped even more. “Careful,” he said, the growl just underneath the surface.
“I tripped,” she muttered, but she didn’t move away.
“I noticed.”
This was ridiculous. He was the Alpha of a big, respected pack. This was a basement with dust and boxes, an old treadmill,and an even older computer; it couldn’t feel like the entire universe.
And yet.
She swallowed. “You can let go now.”
“You can step away.”
Neither did.
But then he loosened his grip. Slowly. Begrudgingly. Because it was a nosedive into trouble, and he didn’t want her to run away again.
She straightened, brushed some dust from her like that would fix the electricity snapping in the air, and stepped back. “Okay,” she said briskly, wiping off her hands. “Focus. We are productive adults.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. He wasn’t convinced at all, but what else was he supposed to do?
They worked for a couple more hours until the piles were neater, and some of the floor reappeared. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt, and not because of the effort. It was because her hair had escaped whatever system had been holding it back and was curling at her temple like dark golden twists. If he followed that line, he would find her neck, where she was warmer, where her scent was even more potent.
Keep your eyes on the work, your hands on the boxes, and your brain out of your pants.But chanting it was easier than actually doing it.
“What?” she asked.
“What what?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
