Smooth, Sadie, very smooth.
Colby’s mouth twitches slightly.
“Sure.”
Ten minutes later we end up on opposite ends of my couch pretending the space between us is enormous.
It is not enormous.
It is approximately one decorative pillow wide.
The movie plays quietly in the background. Some overly cheerful holiday romance where two attractive strangers renovate an inn while snow falls artistically around them.
Neither of us is paying attention. Not really.
I become painfully aware of everything instead. The heat from his shoulder near mine. The way he relaxes deeper into the couch slowly. The fact that he automatically reaches down to straighten the folded blanket Jillie left behind earlier.
That one almost destroys me.
Because he does it absentmindedly, like caring for this house already feels natural.
Halfway through the movie, our hands brush reaching for popcorn at the same time.
Everything stops.
Not physically.
The movie continues.
Snow falls outside.
The heater hums softly.
But inside me? Everything stops.
His fingers remain lightly against mine for one suspended second too long.
I look up.
Big mistake.
Colby is already looking at me.
And suddenly the emotional tension between us becomes almost unbearable.
No jokes. No teasing. No headlines.
Just two exhausted people sitting too close together while something dangerous quietly unfolds between them.
My pulse pounds hard enough that I’m sure he can hear it. Neither of us moves. Not closer. Not away.
The air itself feels tight. Then the movie couple kiss dramatically onscreen. And both of us immediately look away.
I stand so quickly I nearly trip over the blanket. “I should check on Jillie.”
Coward. Complete coward.
“Yeah,” Colby says quietly.
