“Because it’s cold.”
“Because you like it.”
“Stop reading me like a weather report.”
“Then stop being obvious.”
We stare at each other. For a heartbeat, the rest of the town blurs. All I hear is the crackle of fire and the steady, calm cadence of his breathing.
I want to kiss him.
He wants to kiss me.
We don’t.
Because the Miller twins run up screaming, “KISS HER! KISS HER!” and that is not the way I’m letting my first Clay Walker kiss happen.
I laugh, shaking my head, and Clay gives them a look that says “not now, gremlins.” They scamper away, giggling.
“You’re good with kids,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “They like trucks.”
“You have that in common.”
He almost smiles.
We make the rounds, hand in hand. He’s polite in that clipped, efficient way. Nods. Shakes hands. Accepts congratulations. I chatter to everyone, hummingbird fast, filling the silences he leaves. We’re weirdly good at this.
When the wind turns brutal and the sun fully sinks, we step away from the fire to where it’s darker. My breath fogs. I want his arms.
“Hey,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “Thanks for…this.”
He studies me. “For what.”
“Not making me go through tonight alone.”
His brows knit. “You wouldn’t have been alone.”
“Oh, right, I forgot, I have the Paperwork Coven now.”
“You have the whole damn town now.”
I make a face. “That’s the problem.”
“You don’t like attention?”
“I love attention,” I admit. “I just like it for things I earned. Pieces I made. Not because I cried like a maniac on Main Street.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then: “You weren’t a maniac.”
“I was a mess.”
“You lost your place.”
“I losteverything.”
His eyes soften, barely. “I know.”
