I tighten my hold, not letting her nonsense ruin the moment. “Absolute rubbish.”
She squirms. “I mean it, I—”
“Ivy,” I say firmly, adjusting my grip. “I could do this all day.”
Her struggling slows, her hands resting against my shoulders, fingers curling slightly into my shirt. There’s amoment—a beat—where her breathing evens out, and I realise just how close we are.
I lower her slowly, not because she’s too heavy, but because something about this—her—makes me want to linger. Her body presses against mine for a second too long before her feet finally touch the floor.
She is not much shorter than my six-foot-three frame, but this close she still has to tilt her head back.
And then she looks at me.
Really looks at me.
The laughter fades, leaving something quieter, something heavier between us.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
My fingers are still resting at her waist. I could move them. I should move them. But I don’t.
She swallows, then—hesitantly, almost testing—lifts a hand and cups my cheek. Her thumb brushes against my skin, slow and warm, leaving behind a trail of something I can’t quite name.
We lean in.
Just slightly.
Just enough for her breath to warm my lips.
Just enough for my heart to stutter in my chest.
And then—
DING.
The oven timer blares through the moment like a cold slap.
Ivy jumps, her hand dropping from my face as if she's been burnt. I force myself to take a step back, to put space where there should have been space all along.
She clears her throat, turning sharply towards the oven. “Right. Cake.”
“Yeah,” I say, raking a hand through my flour-dusted hair. “Cake.”
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us looks at each other.
The timer beeps again.
And still, neither of us moves.
21
Victory to the Loser
Ivy
Istand there fora moment, frozen, staring at the oven as the soft ping of the timer snaps me out of my thoughts. The cake.
