“No.”
She sighs dramatically. “You are no fun.”
“I’m doing this, aren’t I?”
She bites her lip, looking me over in a way that should not make me feel ten feet tall. “Yeah. You are.”
Silence drops.
The air shifts.
She’s close again. The sweatshirt slides off one shoulder, revealing a strap and a hint of tattoo—something floral, maybe, inked along her collarbone. I want to trace it with my tongue.
I don’t move.
She does.
She steps in, up on her toes, like she’s gonna test me. “So. Fireman fiancé,” she murmurs. “You gonna pick me up for the charity bonfire tonight like a good fake partner?”
My jaw flexes. “I have a shift.”
“You’re off at six.”
Damn it. “You checked.”
“I asked,” she says, all innocence. “Everyone loves to talk about you.”
“Wonderful.”
She grins, wicked. “They said you were hot and cranky and never dated anyone here, so I figured?—”
“You figured I needed a mail-order artist to fix me?” I cut in.
“You figured right.” She taps my chest with one finger. “Also, maybe the fire burned up my ride and I could use one.”
“You have friends.”
“You’re my favorite friend,” she says brightly. “My fian-friend.”
I stare at her mouth.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what,” she whispers.
“Don’t make up words like that.”
“Fian-friend,” she repeats, slower, more obnoxious.
I grab her wrist.
Her mouth pops open in a sweet little O.
I lean in, real close, let her feel the heat she keeps teasing.
“We’re not engaged,” I say, voice rough. “We’re not dating. We’re not anything.”
Her breath hitches. “Then why,” she whispers back, “do you look at me like you want to peel me out of this sweatshirt?”
