Page 72 of At First Spark
“Why?”
He takes another step until there’s almost no distance at all.
“Because I’ve been trying real hard not to think about kissing you again since the other day,” he says.
Everything in me goes still as the room crowds around me. And somewhere behind us, Rook barks once from off in the distance because apparently even the dog can tell this night just changed shape.
Chapter Twelve – Holt
I shouldn’t have said that. The second the words leave my mouth, I know it. Not because they aren’t true, but because there’s no walking them back once they’re out there, sitting between us in the middle of my kitchen like something alive.
The house feels too small all of a sudden, like the walls have shifted closer without warning, pressing everything inward until no space is left to pretend this is anything other than what it is.
Her fingers tighten around the dish towel in her hands.
“You’re not very good at that,” she says.
Her voice is steady. Something that sounds a lot like she’s standing on the edge of the same thing I am and doesn’t trust herself not to step forward.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
Silence stretches. Outside, I hear the low hum of wind moving through the trees, the distant creak of the barn doors shifting on their hinges, and Rook pacing the back porch like he’s trying to decide whether he belongs out there or in here.
Inside everything is focused on her. On the way she’s looking at me now like she’s aware of my every movement. Because awareness means choice. And I don’t think either of us is making good ones tonight.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she says.
I take a step closer.
“Why?” I ask.
Her breath catches. The gold flecks in her brown eyes ignite.
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
She shakes her head once. Slowly. As if she’s trying to clear something that won’t break free.
“This is temporary,” she says.
The word hits like a warning.
“Everything about this is temporary.”
I’m close enough to see the faint line of tension along her jaw, the way her pulse jumps at her throat, the way her eyes flick down for just a second before coming back to mine.
“That doesn’t make it less real,” I say.
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Her lips part.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
I almost smile.
