Page 70 of Rising Heat

His eyebrows knit together.

“You’re not being rescued, Darcy.”

His gaze flicks past me into the dark apartment.

“You don’t have heat. You don’t have power. This place leaks drafts every time the wind blows.”

He lifts the lantern slightly.

“You can freeze up here if you want.”

His eyes come back to mine.

“Or you can come downstairs where there’s food and a generator.”

For a second, I just stare at him.

The power has barely been out ten minutes and he’s already standing at my doorstep holding a lantern telling me where we’re going next and tempting me with snowstorm luxuries.

Something low in my belly does a little somersault.

“Five minutes,” I say.

He nods and holds out the lantern.

“For the stairs.”

The metal handle brushes my fingers as I take it, his hand catching mine for half a second in the exchange. His skin is cold from outside, rough against mine.

It feels like striking a flint.

His eyes flick to mine, lingering just long enough to make me forget what either of us was saying before he steps back.

“I’ll meet you down there.”

I shut the door behind him and lean against it, lantern hanging from my hand, while my pulse proceeds to behave like an absolute idiot.

By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs twenty minutes later, their apartment door is already cracked open. Warmth slips through in a soft wave, carrying the scent of coffee, browned butter, and a sweet scent enough to make my stomach rumble.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, fingers curled around the strap of the overnight tote hanging from my shoulder.

In a truly impressive display of preparedness, I’ve packed a phone charger, toothbrush, leggings, and enough supplies to survive the harrowing journey one flight down.

I blame Mason MacAllister entirely.

I knock anyway. This is still their space, and crossing that threshold feels bigger than stepping downstairs. Tyler’s voice carries easily from inside.

“Door’s open, Trouble,” he says like he’s been calling me that for years.

I push the door open and step inside.

The heat meets me immediately—the kind that settles into old brick and floorboards and makes my shoulders drop before I realize they’ve been tense.

The apartment opens in one long sweep, light from the fireplace moving up the exposed brick wall in streaks. An oversized black-and-white photograph hangs above the fireplace, Boston half-lost in snow, the Zakim Bridge disappearing into fog. The dark wood floors match the ones upstairs, worn smooth with time. A charcoal leather sectional sofa faces the fire, flanked by two brown leather armchairs. A thick gray rug stretches beneath all of it, soft enough that my feet sink into it when I step forward.

I turn slowly, taking in the rest.

A massive flatscreen sits against floor-to-ceiling black-framed windows overlooking the back street. Some sports channel flickers silently across the screen, blue and gold flashing against the dark glass. Floating stairs climb toward a loft above, disappearing beside two closed doors.