Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
His gaze drags over my socks—pink with little snowflakes—and then up my bare shins to the hem of my sleep shorts, lingering there a fraction too long before he jerks his focus to my face like he’s punishing himself.
“It’s twenty-four degrees,” he says, somehow making it sound like a sin. “Where are your boots?”
“Inside,” I say. “Where boots go.”
He stares, deadpan. “Put them on, Snowflake.”
“You can’t order me around on my own porch, Ramirez.”
He takes a slow step to the base of my stairs and tips his head up. “You going to come down here, or do I need to drag you into the house and make you put real clothes on?”
Heat flashes through me so fast my breath fogs twice as hard. I raise a brow. “Threatening a paramedic. Bold choice.”
“Observation,” he says, too calm. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m—” A full-body shiver picks that exact moment to rattle me. I scowl. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes heat in a way that says he wants to.
“Fine,” I say, trying not to curl my toes against the cold boards. “Neighborhood Watch, hm? Are you going to write me a citation for improper sock usage?”
“Thinking about it.” Another step. He’s one tread away now, looking up at me like we’ve rewound ten years and we’re arguing about who gets the river rope swing. Except nothing about this feels young.
He shields his eyes from the porch light with two fingers, scanning the eaves, the lines, the street. He’s not faking it, I notice. He actually checks the transformer down the road, the connections at the pole, the icicles hanging in dagger rows off my roofline.
“You really came to check the power lines?” I ask, softer.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Storm hit a couple of weak spots on my street. Figured I’d look.” A beat. “And drive by.”
“Twice.”
His mouth curves. “Three. If we’re telling the truth.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Why?”
He drags a hand over the back of his neck. The motion lifts his jacket just enough to reveal the worn hem of his gray t-shirt and the bracket of muscle at his hip. I look away before I stare like an idiot.
“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says simply.
“I was okay the first time.”
“Didn’t feel like enough.”
Oh. Okay. That lands low and warm.
“Also,” he adds, eyes flicking to the porch light, “your light’s dirty. That can cause a flicker.”
“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Not… dirt.”
His mouth twitches. “You need a ladder?”
“I have a chair.”
“Chairs aren’t ladders.”
“They are if you believe in them,” I say, and the corner of his mouth actually, actually lifts.
“Get your boots, Savannah,” he says, low.
The way he says my name steals heat from my hands and puts it—unhelpfully—elsewhere.
“Fine. Bossy.” I turn to go in.
He clears his throat. “Lock the door behind you.”
I pause, hand on the knob. “Is the neighborhood dangerous?”
“Only if you invite trouble onto the porch.”
“And who would that be?”
His eyes hold mine. Heavy. Hot. “Me.”
The word slices the air clean. My pulse hops. I shut the door because he told me to and because I need thirty seconds of wood between us to reset my breathing.
Boots. Jacket. Beanie. I open the door again and he’s still there, one hand braced on the rail now, head tipped back to watch the valley. He can be perfectly still in a way that used to make me crazy—like a coiled spring disguised as a statue.
“Approved attire?” I ask.
He gives me a slow once-over that feels like a warm hand down my spine. “Better.”
“Good. Because I’m not losing toes for your kink about footwear.”
He coughs into his fist. “Not a kink.”
“So you say.”
He looks like he’s choosing between laughing and throwing me over his shoulder. He doesn’t do either. “Show me your ladder-chair.”
I bring the chair out. He stares at it like it insulted his heritage. “That chair’s older than both of us.”
“Which means it’s trustworthy.” I set it under the light and reach for the fixture. He steps forward so fast the cold air shrinks.
“Absolutely not.” His palm wraps around my waist and pivots me aside—gentle, effortless, like I weigh the same as the wind.
My body knows him before my brain signs off. Heat leaps where his fingers press through my jacket. The porch, the river, the night—everything narrows to his hand and the scent of cedar and smoke.
“Axel,” I warn. It comes out thinner than I want.
“Stand there,” he says. Not unkind. Just unfiltered. He sets his big hands on the rickety chair and checks the wobble, expression flat with disapproval, then climbs up carefully, bracing one palm to the siding. The jacket stretches across his back. My mouth goes inconveniently dry.
He unscrews the cover, wipes the inside with his shirt hem like he promised me nothing explicit and then did that anyway, checks the bulb, reseats it, and clicks the cover back into place. The light glows steady and bright.