She rolls her eyes. “Right. You’re practically Prince Charming.”
“Charming as hell,” I correct, my grin widening.
She lets out a frustrated sigh, but I catch the way the corners of her mouth twitch, like she’s fighting a smile.
I step in closer. “Admit it. You liked it. Dancing with me.”
Her eyes flick to mine, that flush creeping up her neck again. “I—”
Then, just like that, she pivots, and walks to the kitchen sink like this conversation never happened, grabbing Hudson’s bowl to wash it out.
I follow her, my steps unhurried. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her walk away from this—walk away from me. Not if I can help it.
She’s standing at the sink, hands in the soapy water, focused like those dishes are holding the world together.
I hear it.
That tiny hitch in her breath. She knows I’m here.
I step in behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of me at herback. Close enough that if I so much as lean down an inch, I could press my lips to the soft spot beneath her ear. The one that makes her shiver.
My hands come down slow, one on each side of the counter. Trapping her without touching her. Giving her every chance to move—and praying she doesn’t.
She goes still. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t lean in either.
“Lark.”
My voice is quiet. Low. Meant only for her.
She doesn’t stop washing the goddamn bowl.
I lean in a little closer, just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. Her fingers falter, just barely. The dish slips in her grip before she catches it, but she still won’t look at me.
I reach around her, pull the bowl gently from her hands, rinse it and set it in the rack. I don’t crowd her. I give her space.
She still doesn’t move.
“You’re not gonna turn around, are you?” I murmur.
“Nope.”
A laugh rumbles low in my chest, warm against the side of her neck. “God, you’re such a pain in the ass.”
I pause, voice softening. “I love it.”
She lets out a sharp exhale—half scoff, half maybe-laugh. But I see it. The way her shoulders drop, just barely. Like she’s letting herself breathe.
I lean in again, not quite kissing her—just letting my lips hover near her skin. A whisper of breath against her neck. She stays still, but her breathing shifts. Shallow. Uneven.
“You know,” I murmur, mouth brushing her jaw, “I was definitely flirting with you earlier.”
Still no argument. No shove. No sarcasm. Just silence.
So I push it a little further.
“I think,” I say, my lips at her shoulder now, “you were flirting back.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter. White-knuckled.
