Page 121 of Rising Heat

Huh.

Turns out it’s been fine all along. I’d just been looking hard enough to convince myself there was a problem that wasn’t there.

Funny what you can talk yourself into expecting.

Nothing’s changed on paper—Darcy still lives upstairs, Tyler and I still live down here, the calls still come in, my schedule hasn’t changed. Everything that was true before is still true.

What never showed up was the awkwardness I’d spent weeks expecting.

What showed up instead was the memory of the fact that I’d tasted her. And now instead of getting her out of my system, all I’ve been able to think about is going back for more.

It’s not just the physical part — even though that part is fucking fantastic. If it were only that, I’d take it for what it was and move on the same way we always have.

The problem is the way I keep thinking about the way she’d laughed against my shoulder afterward. The way she’d looked at me that morning like she was deciding whether what she wanted was allowed, before deciding it was. The way Tyler spotted the note I’d left for her on my bed still sitting on her kitchen counter a few days ago.

I slide out from under the car and sit up, reaching for the shop rag on the workbench.

I’ve spent a long time building a life that made sense—the job, the house, Tyler. Piece by piece, it all found its place and once it did, I didn’t have much interest in disturbing it because I know what happens when you let something in before you’re sure about it. You ended up attached to things that didn’t fit.

She’s been upstairs for two months and the house is somehow warmer, like she just…fits. Like she’d been part of this place longer than she has.

I still don’t know what to do with that.

An hour later, I’m back to torquing the new hardware when I hear the basement door.

The footsteps are lighter than Tyler’s, and I know it’s her before she even says anything.

I turn to find Darcy standing at the bottom of the stairs with a laundry basket balanced against one hip and a bottle of detergent tucked under her arm.

Brown tank top and sweats, hair pulled back in that messy little bun that I’m beginning to like, she stands there taking in the garage like she’s deciding what she thinks of it.

I watch her like I wanna know.

Her eyes drift over the workbench first, then the shelves, taking in the rows of labeled bins before settling on the Buick sitting beneath the shop lights.

“I was actually coming down to do laundry,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the room off to the left with the detergent bottle. “Then I saw the light on.”

“And?”

She smiles without looking away from the car.

“And now I’m curious.”

I glance at the laundry basket.

“Your towels are gonna be waiting a while.”

“They’ve waited this long.”

She finally looks at me.

“I figure another few minutes won’t hurt.”

“No complaints here.”

The words leave my mouth before I think about them.

She hesitates just long enough to make sure I’m serious.