“But before you go?—”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Ember.”
She bounces on her toes once, mischief blooming. “Put the flannel on.”
I stare at her. “What.”
“The flannel. The green one the town lost its mind over. You can’t break their hearts now. They’re invested.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Clay.”
“No. You wore it last night–”
“Because I was freezing. You’re myfiancé.We have to match aesthetically.”
“We do not.”
“Clay.”
“Ember.”
We stare.
She grins.
I sigh.
“Jesus,” I mutter, turning to the rack by the door where I hung it earlier. I grab the damn green flannel and shrug it onover my navy tee. The material pulls across my shoulders. It smells like smoke and—annoyingly—her.
I look back at her.
She’s staring.
Hard.
“What?” I ask.
She licks her lips. Tiny movement. Full-body hit.
“That’s illegal,” she says softly.
“It’s a shirt.”
“It’sforeplay.”
Gabe coughs from the doorway, trying and failing not to laugh. “I’m gonna go before HR appears out of thin air.”
“Go,” I snap.
He goes.
I turn back to Ember.
