Page 98 of Your Place or Mine

“Got anything else to announce before I open?” I asked, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

She straightened and pushed away from the bar, that cocky glint still dancing in her eyes. “Nope. Just thought I’d check in. You know… like a responsible landlord.”

“You mean a nosy one.”

She laughed. “Tomato, tomahto.”

I rubbed a hand over my face and muttered to the empty bar, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

And somehow, I didn’t mind the idea half as much as I should’ve.

She didn’t move.

Not toward the door.

Not away from me.

Lydia just stood there, still on her side of the bar, eyes fixed on mine like she’d just dared me to flinch first.

And I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

The heat between us was molten.

No more glancing blows. No more brushes of fingertips or thinly veiled threats dressed up as banter.

Just her.

And me.

And something crackling so loud between us I was amazed the neon beer sign hadn’t short-circuited.

“You done?” I asked, my voice a little too hoarse.

She arched one of those maddening eyebrows. “That depends.”

“On what?”

She stepped closer.

Not much. Just a couple of inches.

But it felt like crossing a war zone.

“On whether you’re still trying to play it cool,” she murmured.

“I’m not playing anything,” I said, low and rough. “You walked in here throwing fire. Don’t act surprised that I’m burning.”

That got her.

Her breath caught. Subtle, but I saw it.

Then she tipped her chin, closing the last of the distance between us.

There was maybe a foot between our bodies now. If that.

I could smell her. Something warm and clean, with a hint of citrus and lavender, lingered in the air. Her skin was flushed from marching across town, from all that spitfire energy she always brought like a stormfront.

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