Page 86 of Lighting the Lamp
“Beau…”
My name in her voice does something to me. My chest tightens, making it harder to breathe. A part of me aching for weeks leans forward, desperate and stupid with want, but there’s something in her gaze that stops me. Alise looks confused, like she doesn’t know what to do with the way I see her. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
“You remembered the exact release date.”
“I’m thoughtful like that.” I shrug, going for nonchalant.
“You’re trouble,” she mutters, cheeks flushed as she presses the book tighter to her chest.
“And you like it.”
Her eyes drop like she can’t look at me too long without coming undone. “I do not.”
“Alise…”
She turns just as I step in, and now we’re toe to toe, breath to breath. The air between us shifts, alive with the ache of everything we haven’t said. Her breath hitches when she realizes how close we are. We’re drowning in it now, in everything we haven’t said and tried to keep buried.
“You really came here just to remind me about the fitting?”
“Maybe I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she whispers so low I almost miss it, and it hits me like a punch to the ribs.
“I’m fine.”
“You’d say that even if you weren’t.”
“True, but I mean it.”
She nods, but I can see it in her eyes that she’s not ready to believe me, hugging the book tighter as she turns toward the door.
“I should go. Ramona’s waiting.”
“You could stay. I’ve got ten minutes and the worst shootout mode in history cued up.”
I follow her slowly and reluctantly. I don’t want her to go, not when it finally feels like we’re on the edge of something real.
“Tempting. But if I stay, I’ll get crumbs on your sofa, and you’ll complain.”
“I never complain when you’re here.”
That makes her stop a half-step from the door, the words hooking into something she wasn’t guarding.
“You should stop saying stuff like that,” she says, quieter now. “I might start believing you mean it.”
“I do.” I take a step forward, slow and certain.
Her eyes meet mine, shining with something she doesn’t want me to see but doesn’t know how to hide. It’s devastating the way she looks at me. It’s as if she’s one heartbeat away from shattering, and I’m the only person who’s ever noticed. She tries to cover the crack in her armor with a smirk, the kind of teasing jab that’s safer than admitting the truth. She copies my tone, soft and mock-serious, as if daring me and herself to go there.
“Yes, Daddy,” she mutters, the smirk in her voice cracking at the edges.
I step in again, close enough to feel the heat rolling off her in waves. Close enough to ruin everything as my mouth finds her ear, voice rough and full of every ounce of want I’ve tried to swallow down since I saw her standing at my door.
“Don’t call me Daddy unless you’re ready to be my good girl.”
Her breath catches like she wasn’t ready for my response, but she likes it. I know based on the way her whole body stills, it’s not retreat—it’s anticipation.
“I—shut up,” she says, fumbling with the hem of her shirt. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“You started it.”
