Page 22 of Rising Heat

“Still. Could’ve ghosted.”

“Tempting.”

He shakes his head and chuckles before stopping at the curb to take in the SUV.

“Jesus.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s concerning.” He looks at me. “You moving in or starting a witness protection program?”

“To be fair, dramatic exits are kind of my thing lately.”

His grin eases a little but he doesn’t ask or push further.

He jerks his chin toward the car.

“How bad is it?”

“Scale of one to deeply humbling? Probably a seven.”

He glances at the building, then back at me.

“You came alone?”

There’s no judgment in it, just curiosity, but some stubborn instinct in me rises immediately anyway.

“I can manage.”

“That not what I asked.”

He steps closer, just enough that I catch that same clean scent from the first time. Soap and something fresh underneath that I definitely shouldn’t be memorizing.

“Darcy,” he says, like he’s letting me in on something obvious. “You’re standing in the wet cold with forty boxes and what appears to be a hostage plant. Let me be useful.”

“You noticed the ficus?”

He glances at it through the windshield.

“Hard not to. It looks like it’s blinking for help.”

I laugh before I can stop myself — the real kind that I haven’t felt in months. The sound surprises me enough that I almost miss the way his mouth softens around the edges.

Alarm bells go off in my head.

And yet here I am, stepping aside.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you throw out your back, I’m not liable.”

“I think I can manage.”

He reaches for the first box like it weighs nothing.

I watch him do it and have several thoughts I’m choosing not to finish.

The Henley is doing something deeply unhelpful in the rain. The forearms are back. He hooks the box against his hip and heads for the front door without any visible effort, like doing hard labor is a perfectly normal way to spend a Saturday.

Which I’m beginning to think is very much the case for Tyler MacAllister.