Page 74 of Rising Heat

Something about the look they share makes my stomach flip. Suddenly the storm outside doesn’t feel like the most dangerous thing brewing. I take another bite of my pancakes and decide not to think about that yet.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

tyler

Somewhere between breakfast and bourbon, the storm settled in for the long haul.

So did Darcy.

We talked about her scholarship to Penn State and her freshman year roommate who would steal all of her socks. She told us about growing up outside Philadelphia and her summer abroad in London and how she’d turned a design degree into a freelance empire.

Conversations about work usually lasted three minutes before me or Mack changed the subject. Most people wanted the highlight reel. The stuff that sounded good over drinks.

With Darcy, it was different. She asked questions because she was curious, not because she was collecting details to be impressed by later.

When Mack explained chauffeur training, she listened. When I told her about RIT, she listened to that too. Then she nodded, stole another pancake and moved on when we were done, like the firefighter part wasn’t the most interesting thing about either of us.

I didn’t realize how rare that was until she did it.

I stare out the window as butter melts in a pot over the stove.

The storm’s gotten serious. Wind shoves snow sideways across the street, swallowing stoops and parked cars one drift at a time.

Darcy looks up from her spot on the floor near the couch. She’d started the day in the armchair. Somewhere after the second bourbon she’d relocated to the rug, stolen my hoodie, and settled in like she’d always been there.

“Should we be worried?”

“Relax.” I nod toward the front door. “Generators running. Besides, if it wasn’t and we lost power again, Mack would fistfight Eversource himself.”

Darcy snorts into her bourbon.

“That’s reassuring.”

Mack’s voice rings in from the foyer.

“Talking shit from a warm kitchen is brave.”

I grin.

“See? Already in fighting form.”

A second later, Mack shoulders through the door from the basement stairs with an armful of firewood, work boots still on and cheeks pink from the cold.

Darcy looks up before he’s even fully in the room.

I keep that information to myself.

Her glass stops halfway to her mouth. I give her a second to remember I’m still in the room. She gets there in about two, setting her cup down and clearing her throat as Mack drops the firewood beside the hearth and crouches to feed the fire.

Her attention follows him the whole way. She’s not nearly as subtle as she thinks she is, but then again, neither is he.

He’s spent most of the day pretending Darcy was no different than any other tenant. Which would’ve been a more convincing strategy if he hadn’t been the first one at her door when the power went out. Or if he’d quit looking at her like she’s both a bad idea and the only thing he wants to think about.

My brother keeps drawing the line and then walking right over it.

“This feels like a setup,” she half-whispers, interrupting my train of thought.

I like this.