Page 8 of Falling for Keeps

Ohmigosh ohmigosh ohmigosh. That voice. I’m not prepared to face him. His footsteps grow louder as he approaches the kitchen, and I search frantically for somewhere to hide, but he’s about to occupy the only escape route.

The pantry. I can hide in the pantry.

I’m halfway there when Carson steps into the sunny, pale yellow kitchen, a beam of light pouring through the window and highlighting his bare chest and well defined six pack. The man is gleaming with sweat and wearing nothing but socks and athletic shorts. Every small ridge I felt through his shirt is now on full display, proving he’s as cut as he felt.

Where’s an inhaler when I need one?

“Emma?” His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. “What are you—? How do you know where I live?”

Hold on…live? As in present tense? What the actual? “I don’t. I didn’t.” My words are a jumble as I wave my measuring cup. “This is Sharon’s house. I live across the street.”

His mouth closes as he absorbs this information, eyes cutting to the wall like it would magically open and show him my house to corroborate my claim. Yeah, he’s a good kisser, but does he seriously think he’s good enough to turn me into a stalker?

Also, we went to school together. I’ve known him a long time. If he’d get his head out of his butt, he’d remember that.

“Across the street,” he repeats. “The white house?”

I’d classify it as gray presently, and in need of a good power washing, but he’s not wrong. I nod.

Silence descends on us.

“You’re acting weird, Dad.”

He drops a smile on his daughter, but it’s strained.

“I just came for some flour,” I say weakly. “My sourdough needs it.”

“Let me help you with that.” Carson circles the counter and slips a hand to the small of my back. He leads me toward the corner of the kitchen. No, the pantry. He’s pushing me into the pantry. I’m tempted to tell him I had this exact escape plan mapped out first, but he doesn’t look receptive to a joke.

Now I’m vibrating where he touched me. Like my body remembers how strong and capable those hands felt the other night. Good grief this is not a Danielle Steel novel. This is real life.

The tiny room wasn’t built to hold one full-sized adult, let alone two, but Carson follows me inside and closes the door. He flips a switch and deep yellow light washes over us.

“I have a daughter,” he says in a heated whisper.

“You covered that part Saturday night.”

“So I can’t…” He gestures between us.

Disgust rolls through me. “You still think I stalked you? I really do need flour. I’m here on behalf of Sour Dan.”

“Who?”

“My sourdough starter.”

Carson rubs a hand over his face, fighting a laugh. I can smell his deodorant mixed with sweat, and it’s not terrible. He points between us. “My reputation is important right now. This can’t happen.”

“I’m not sure why you don’t believe me, but I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I believe you.” He doesn’t sound like he’s telling the truth, and his eyes are wary. His harsh whisper rakes over my skin, giving me goosebumps. “We’re actually neighbors?”

“Are you…did you move in?”

“Yeah.”

So much for leaving town. This is the exact opposite of the way he made it sound Saturday, which only pours salt into the open I-only-want-to-make-out-I-don’t-actually-want-to-date-you wound. “Then yeah, we’re neighbors.”

Carson gives one nod. “Just my luck.”