Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
She chokes. “Oh my God.”
“Answer the question.”
She points at the panel. “Is it fixed?”
I step closer until she has to lean back against the wall behind her. Not trapped. Not exactly. But my body is a boundary now, and she knows it.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Then fix it,” she snaps, but her voice wavers.
My gaze drops to her mouth again because it’s the most distracting thing in the room. She’s got a tiny smear of paint near the corner of her lip, and the thought of wiping it off with my thumb makes my hands ache.
“You always this bossy?” I ask.
“Only with men who need it,” she fires back.
I laugh under my breath. “You think I need it?”
She lifts her chin. “Don’t you?”
I step in closer, just enough that our breath tangles. I don’t touch her. I don’t have to.
“Firefly,” I murmur, “you don’t know what I need.”
Her eyes widen—just a fraction—and her cheeks flush again. She tries to hold her ground, but her fingers curl in the hem of her sweatshirt like she’s bracing herself.
“Then tell me,” she says, and her voice is quiet and bold at the same time.
My jaw ticks.
I could.
I could tell her that I need her to stop looking at me like she sees through the steel and the sarcasm. I could tell her I need her to stop turning my mornings into something I look forward to. I could tell her I need her to stop being so goddamn bright next door while I’m trying to live in the dark.
Instead, I lift my hand, slow, deliberate, and swipe my thumb gently across her cheek where the blue paint sits.
She freezes.
Not scared.
Affected.
I hold her gaze as I pull my hand back and look at my thumb like the paint is evidence.
“You missed a spot,” I say.
She blinks like she forgot how.
Then she exhales, shaky. “You came here to fix wiring.”
“I am fixing wiring,” I say, calm. “This is… quality control.”
She swats at my arm, but it’s weak. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a hazard,” I counter. “Saxon’s right. Leaving you unsupervised with power tools is a crime.”
Her mouth opens. “Excuse you—”
I cut her off by stepping back, turning away, and going to my tool bag like I’m not affected at all.
It’s a lie.
I can still feel her warmth where my thumb touched her skin.
Behind me, she mutters, “As if being neighbors wasn’t close enough.”
I grin to myself without letting her see it.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling out wire cutters. “Guess we’ll have to suffer through close quarters for the foreseeable future.”
She makes a sound—half annoyed, half pleased.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m not paying you.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “I already told you the price.”
Her eyes narrow. “Cookies.”
“Cookies,” I confirm.
She points at me like she’s making a vow. “You’re getting the driest, most flavorless cookies in the history of baked goods.”
“Liar,” I say, returning to the panel. “You don’t have it in you.”
“I do,” she insists. “I have darkness. It’s just… pastel.”
That makes me laugh again, and it comes out warmer than I expect.
Ember goes still at the sound, like she’s caught something rare. Like she’s collecting proof that I’m not as shut down as I pretend.
Her gaze lingers on me—on my hands, on the set of my shoulders, on the way I work like I’m used to fixing things that can break people.
“You know,” she says lightly, “if you keep showing up at my door first thing in the morning, people are going to talk.”
“They already are,” I answer without looking up.
Her voice dips. “Do you care?”
I cut the damaged splice and start stripping fresh wire, fingers steady.
Then I look up.
Hold her eyes.
And let the truth sit between us like a live line.
“Maybe I don’t mind,” I say.
Her breath stutters.
For a second, the studio feels too small. Too warm. Like the air’s thickening into something dangerous.
Then she clears her throat and forces brightness back into her voice. “Well. I mind. Because if the town thinks you’re helping me, they might think you’re… nice.”
I smirk. “Can’t have that.”
“No.” She shakes her head solemnly. “It would ruin your whole vibe.”
I lean back on my heels, gaze dragging over her slowly, deliberately—letting her feel it.
“What vibe is that?” I ask.
She swallows, then lifts her chin like she’s brave. “Grumpy. Sarcastic. Broody. Scary.”
I tilt my head. “Scary?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Back up. “A little.”
I stand, closing the space again, and this time I let my hand settle on the wall beside her head—not touching her, just there, a quiet reminder of how easily I could.
Her cheeks flush.
I lower my voice. “You should be scared of the wiring,” I murmur. “Not me.”
Her lips part.
She whispers, “Maybe I’m scared of both.”
For a heartbeat, I consider kissing her right there—consider teaching her exactly what she’s playing with.
Instead, I step back again, because I’m not a man who loses control in the morning.