Her pulse jumped under his fingers.
Neither of them moved.
Her skin was warm. His hand rough, steady, certain.
She looked down at where he held her.
Then up at him.
Something passed between them.
His grip loosened slightly.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
“Go get your things.”
He let her go.
Izzy came back two minutes later with her overnight case, shoes in one hand, and no dignity left. This was not how women in tiny sleep shorts were supposed to be escorted into handsome men’s houses.
The blanket was gone from the wall. The bat was gone too.
Grant stood near the door, shoulders filling the frame like he’d planted himself there on purpose—a solid line between her and the rest of the room.
She hesitated at the edge of the hallway anyway, pulse still tripping as her gaze flicked up to the beams.
“It’s clear,” he said quietly. “You’re good.”
He didn’t reach for her, but he didn’t look away either. For a second, it felt like the only safe way across the room was straight toward him.
So she did.
He took her suitcase without comment when she reached him.
She let him.
Outside, the air hit cool against her skin.
“You could have told me,” she muttered.
“I tried.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I said it wasn’t ready.”
“That is not enough information where Dracula’s cousins are concerned.”
He glanced at her. “You always this dramatic?”
She stopped.
“Grant Scott,” she said evenly, “something flew out of your ceiling at my face.”
