Page 29 of Checking It Twice
His mouth curves into that devastating half-smile. “You make it hard to be careful.”
The words are quiet, meant only for me, but they land like a physical blow. Because this—sitting here with his family, feeling his touch, watching him be vulnerable and sweet and real—it’severything I’ve spent two years convincing myself I don’t want. Don’t need.
And I’m terrified by how much I like it.
“So, Clare,” Evan says, cutting through the moment, “what’s the plan for today? Mom’s got a whole itinerary mapped out.”
“I thought we’d take her to see the lights downtown,” Karen says. “Then maybe some shopping, stop for some hot chocolate...”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and mean it.
Because despite every rational thought in my head, despite every professional boundary I’ve ever set, despite the voice screaming that this is temporary and fake and dangerous—I want to stay exactly where I am.
In this warm kitchen, with this impossible family, pretending I belong to the man whose thumb is still tracing patterns on my palm like he has every right to touch me.
Even if it’s all pretend.
Even if Monday will come and we’ll go back to being coworkers who maintain careful professional distance.
For now, in this moment, I let myself believe it’s real.
Chapter Twelve
Close Quarters
Mitchell
The garage smells like motor oil and winter air, a familiar scent that transports me back to being sixteen and thinking I knew everything about life. Now, at twenty-seven, I realize I don’t know a damn thing, especially when it comes to the woman standing three feet away from me, struggling to untangle the rope on an ancient wooden sled.
“These things are older than I am,” Clare mutters, wrestling with a particularly knotted section.
“Dad never throws anything away. I’m pretty sure that sled is from the Carter administration.”
She laughs, and the sound does something dangerous to my chest. Everything about her laugh—the way her head tilts back slightly, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, the genuine joy it conveys—is captivating. It’s not the polite laugh she gives reporters or the sharp bark she uses when she's annoyed. This one feels real and unguarded.
It’s becoming my favorite sound.
“Need help?” I ask, moving closer under the pretense of examining the ancient rope.
“I’ve got it.” But her fingers fumble with the knot, and I can see the frustration building in the set of her shoulders.
“Here.” I step behind her, my chest almost touching her back, and reach around to help with the stubborn tangle. “These old ropes get tricky when they’ve been stored.”
She goes still in my arms, and I become hyperaware of everything—the clean scent of her shampoo, the way she fits perfectly against my chest, the soft rhythm of her breathing. My hands cover hers as we work on the binding together, and I have to concentrate on not thinking about how right this feels.
How easy.
“There,” I say when the clasp finally gives, but I don’t step back. Can’t step back. “Got it.”
She turns in the circle of my arms, and suddenly we’re face to face, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Close enough that if I lowered my head just a few inches...
“Thanks,” she says, her voice slightly breathless.
“Anytime.”
We’re standing too close. Any reasonable person would step back, restoring some professional distance. But Clare doesn’t move, and neither do I. Instead, she looks up at me with those intelligent eyes, and I see something there that makes my pulse race.
Want. Pure and simple.
