Page 42 of Blush Crush

“Let’s get out of here.” I hold my hand out, and the moment she takes it, I guide us out of the basement and back up to street level.

She gasps the second we step outside, the bitter December air biting angrily against our soaked clothes.

Thankfully, I had the foresight to install keypad locks on every storefront when I took ownership of the building, so we’re able to get inside Novel without having to go back down through the flooded basement.

Our shoes squeak against the black-and-white tile floor, the only sound in the otherwise silent shop.

I risk another glance at her, and the sight of her sends a constricting tension through me. That could’ve been bad. Really bad.

If I’d gotten here even a few minutes later, who knows what could’ve happened to her. I shudder just thinking about the worst-case scenario my brain keeps replaying.

“You could’ve gotten seriously hurt,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “What were you thinking?”

She shrugs, dropping her head. “I wasn’t really thinking. I was reacting. I have so much expensive equipment down there, and some of those tools are nearly impossible to replace if something happens to them. I panicked.”

Her teeth chatter as she talks, and there’s no way I can stay angry with her. Even if a part of me is still furious she ignored me and put herself in danger.

Right now there are more pressing matters. Getting her dry and warm.

“Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she walks behind the counter and starts digging through the lower cabinets.

“I think I might have a pair of leggings,” she calls out. “But that’s probably it.”

“Here.” I toss her my hoodie. “Get out of those wet clothes and change. I don’t want you getting hypothermia.”

She gives me a look that says she wants to argue, but thankfully decides against it. A second later she disappears behind the door of the women’s restroom.

I scrub a hand through my damp hair and glance toward the front windows, already mentally running through the list of phone calls I’m going to have to make. A plumber. A mitigation company. Insurance. On top of figuring out what the hell caused the pipe to burst in the first place.

A few minutes later, the restroom door opens. Ariana steps out barefoot, wearing a pair of faded leggings and my hoodie.

I do a double take. Completely caught off guard by how good she looks in my clothes.

There’s a primal sort of possessiveness kicking in, along with an undercurrent of something else flooding my veins. An overwhelming sense of rightness.

She’s drowning in the hoodie, the sleeves hanging past her hands, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Her damp hair is tucked behind her ears, still dripping slightly onto the fabric.

For a split second, my brain does something incredibly unhelpful. It wonders what’s under the hoodie. If she’s naked beneath it. If her bare breasts are brushing against the inside.

I clear my throat and force my eyes somewhere safer. The floor. The espresso machines. Literally anything that isn’t Ariana standing there looking like temptation.

“You should sit,” I say gruffly, nodding toward one of the café tables.

She shoots me a suspicious side-eye but walks over anyway, her bare feet padding softly across the floor. Feet that were just standing in freezing water, now unprotected from the cold tile in December.

I glance toward the tasting room. We started carrying merch a few months back, and I’m almost certain there are socks included in that.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter.

Before she can question it, I slip next door. The lights are off, but there’s enough light pouring in from the streetlamps to see. And just as I thought, right by the registers sits a bin full of merch.

I grab the first pair of socks on top and head back.

Ariana looks up when I walk in, her expression already curious. That curiosity slowly morphs into full-blown confusion when I drop to my knees in front of her and reach for her foot.

“What are you doing?” she asks, alarm creeping into her voice.