Page 51 of Hearts on the Line

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says softly, and there’s a hint of fondness in her voice that makes my chest tighten.

I plant my hand on the stainless-steel worktop between us and lean in, close enough to catch that citrus scent again. “Too bossy for you?”

Her breath hitches, a sharp little intake that goes straight through me. Mine probably does, too, though I’ll deny it if anyone asks.

I know Tony is still manning the fryer behind us, muttering about prep for tomorrow. I know Kelsey is probably watching this whole exchange with the kind of interest that’ll have it spread through town by morning.

But right now, it’s just her and me in this bubble of sticky humidity, close enough for me to see the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her pulse jumps at the base of her throat.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I have to grip the counter to keep from doing something stupid.

Yeah, this is a bad idea. A really, really bad one.

The timer for the lobster tank beeps like a fire alarm, shattering whatever spell we’ve been under. I force myself to back off, dumping the finished rolls in the pass-through with shaking hands.

“Kelsey!” I call out, my voice rougher than it should be. “Table six!”

It’s easier to slip back into command mode—easier than acknowledging whatever the hell just happened between us, or the way Sloane is staring at me like I’ve just confirmed every fear she’s been carrying.

By the time the last few customers filter out and we flip the sign to closed, the air in the kitchen feels thick enough to swim through. I’m about ready to head upstairs and pretend this day never happened when I remember the weight sitting on my chest like a stone.

I still have that damn date tonight.

I tell myself it’s just dinner. A favor for my grandmother. That it doesn’t matter because this isn’t about finding someone—it’s about proving I can move on. Proving the past doesn’t have its claws in me.

But all I can think about is how wrong this feels. How wrong everything is when she’s this close and I’m pretending she isn’t the center of gravity in every room we share.

I head upstairs, hoping a cold shower will reset my brain and wash away the wanting that’s been building all afternoon.

But I’m too late. I can hear the shower running through the thin bathroom door, the faint sound of Sloane’s humming along to the Modern Lovers. Steam seeps out from underneath it, carrying that citrus scent that’s been driving me crazy for weeks.

When the water finally shuts off, I count to ten before knocking.

“How much longer?” I call through the door.

The door swings open in a rush of warm, damp air. She’s wrapped up in an old towel of mine that barely reaches mid-thigh. Her hair hangs in wet spirals to her waist, and there are droplets of water clinging to her collarbone that I want to swipe away with my tongue.

“Hi, how are you?” she says, all sarcasm and narrowed eyes, like she’s daring me to comment on the fact that she’s practically naked.

“Sloane.”

“Ethan.”

Her name tastes like coming home, which is exactly the problem.

I step into the bathroom, steam still clinging to every surface, trying to ignore the way it makes my skin feel tight and warm. “You’re going to make the paint peel if you keep taking showers this hot.”

She wrinkles her nose at me in the mirror. “God, you sound like such a dickish roommate when you say stuff like that.”

“Technically, I’m your landlord.”

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like “pain in my ass” and skirts around me to grab her hairbrush from beside the sink. The movement brings her close enough that I catch a whisper of warm, clean skin, and I have to grip the doorframe to keep from reaching for her.

I’m trying to focus on brushing my teeth, trying to pretend sharing a bathroom with the woman who’s been haunting my dreams for over a decade is normal. We’re roommates. That’s it. I don’t have to complicate it again.

But my eyes keep drifting to her reflection in the mirror, the way she drags the brush through her wet hair, the faint flush still coloring her cheeks from the shower.

“Have a good time tonight,” she says, and it sounds like she’s swallowing glass.