His mouth twitches.
“Don’t say that in front of Tina,” he mutters. “She’ll print it.”
“Clay Walker: Annoyed, Hot,” I whisper. “I’d read that article.”
He squeezes my hand once. “Be good.”
“No promises.”
We make our way to the edge of the crowd. The bonfire roars to life, heat rolling over us. Kids cheer. The whole town is glowing—pumpkins, fire, faces. It’s stupidly perfect.
Then the wind shifts.
Cold slices right through my thermal. I shiver.
Clay looks down. “Cold?”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
“I’m from Montana.”
“You’re from a studio with a space heater and seventeen kilns.”
“Still Montana.”
He releases my hand.
For one panicked second I think he’s leaving.
Then he shrugs out of his flannel—dark green, worn, warm—and drapes it around my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He tugs it snug at my collarbone. His knuckles graze my throat.
Heat shoots down my spine.
Phones click.
Peopleaudibly swoon.
“Clay,” I whisper.
“Just keeping up appearances,” he says, voice rough.
“That was…a lot of appearance.”
He doesn’t let go of the collar immediately. His fingers stay there, thumb brushing the inside, like he’s feeling my pulse.
He sees how fast it is.
His eyes darken.
“You good?” he asks low.
I swallow. “Great.”
“You’re shaking.”
