Page 85 of Secrets on Ice

She gestures at me, eyes wide. “Yeah, your underwear.”

“They’re boxer briefs,” I argue, fighting a smile. “Perfectly acceptable lounge attire.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, and the blush on her cheeks deepens. “Who walks around their apartment in their underwear?”

“Someone who thought they had the place to themselves.”

The words hang between us.

“Well, it’s rude.”

I raise a brow and lean forward. “You know what’s rude …” my voice drops, “checking out my package while I give you first aid.”

She huffs and splutters, her face is bright red. “You wish.”

“I do.”

My answer surprises her, and I watch in real time the heat flare across her skin, up from her chest to the tips of her ears. She looks away fast, but not before I catch the way her lips part, the quick little inhale she tries to hide. Her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite in it. Her voice is too soft.

I lean in a fraction closer, elbows on my knees, still sitting on the coffee table right in front of her. Close enough that my bare thigh brushes the edge of the couch beside her hip. “Am I?”

Her eyes flick back to mine. There’s a war going on behind them, embarrassment, frustration, and something hotter that makes my pulse kick up. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like she can’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I can hear her breathing. Can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. My gaze drops there for half a second before I force it back up.

She swallows. “You should … really put a shirt on.”

I smirk, slow and deliberate. “You keep saying that, but you haven’t stopped looking yet.”

Her cheeks burn brighter. She huffs out a laugh that sounds more like a nervous exhale. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe I am.” My voice drops lower. “Maybe I like knowing you’re looking.”

For a second, the air between us feels electric. Like if one of us moves even an inch, everything we’ve been dancing around since Maine is going to snap.

Then she looks away, biting her lip, and the moment breaks.

I stand up slowly, giving her space even though every instinct tells me to stay right where I am.

“I’ll go put a shirt on,” I say, voice rough. “Before you combust.”

She doesn’t answer, just stares at her ankle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But as I walk toward my room, I feel her eyes on my back the entire way.

And I’m smiling like an idiot.

I can’t sleep. It’s been three nights since I carried Ember to the couch, and I still feel her body against mine every time I close my eyes. The soft sound she made when I lifted her. The way her fingers curled into my shoulders.

I throw the covers off and head to the kitchen for water. The apartment is dark except for the small light over the stove. I stop in the doorway when I see her. Ember is standing at the counter in an oversized T-shirt, one hand gripping the edge like she needs it to stay upright. Her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying, quiet, broken little sounds that hit me straight in the chest. I should turn around and give her privacy.

Instead, I step into the kitchen. “Em?”

She startles, quickly wiping at her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” I move closer, stopping a few feet away. “What’s wrong?”

Ember shakes her head, trying to pull herself together. “Nothing, just …”