“That was reckless,” he growls.
“I carry an EpiPen.”
“You could have died,” he groans.
I smile out the window.
“Sorry.”
He groans.
“No apologizing. Especially not for being stung by a bee.”
“Do you always boss people around like this?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
He glances over.
His eyes catch mine, the humor fading into heat. I pick at a loose thread on my shorts.
“I hate being a problem.”
Simon’s jaw tightens.
“You weren’t,” he growls. The words settle somewhere deep inside me.
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak. Neither of us says anything for a while. Then Simon reaches over and rests his hand on my knee. His palm is warm with his thumb brushing slow circles against the inside of my thigh. Every pass sends little sparks of heat higher up my leg.
He leaves it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world and I don’t move away.
By the time we pull into Crescent Ridge, the town is quiet.
Porch lights glow along Main Street like scattered lanterns. The bakery is dark. The diner’s neon sign buzzes faintly in the distance. TheFirefly Inn,where I’ve rented a room, shines at the end of the block with warm golden windows and flower boxes spilling over the porch railing.
Simon goes right past the inn. He drives us up the mountain, taking a winding road that gradually narrows and turns from smooth asphalt to loose gravel. Maybe I should be nervous about going home with a man, but all I feel is giddy.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
He turns toward me fully, moonlight catching in his green eyes.
His gaze drops to my mouth. I wet my lips without thinking. His eyes darken with unmistakable hunger.
The truck suddenly feels very small, very warm and very private.
“If I kiss you,” he says quietly, “is that a bad idea?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I almost died today.”
He nods once.
“I have a counterpoint.”
