She rolled her eyes. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s data,” I said, amused. “We’re testing.”
“You go first.”
“That’s not how across-from-you works,” I protested, but she folded her arms, looking at me expectantly.
I could’ve said something safe and general.You’re creative. You’re good at your job. The town loves you.All of which were true.
What came out instead was, “You care. A lot. Even when you pretend you don’t. About the business, about the town, about people. You carry more than anyone realizes.”
Her mouth parted. The air between us charged.
“That’s more than one thing,” she said quietly.
I didn’t look away. “Yeah. It is.”
Her pulse beat fast at the base of her throat. For a second, it seemed like she might answer in kind. Her lips parted. Closed. She put the block down like it was suddenly too heavy.
“I think,” she said, voice slightly rough, “this game may be too intense for Huckleberry Creek.”
I let her have the out. “Glitter glue it is.”
We abandoned the Jenga tower, but the question I’d dropped hummed under her skin. Under mine.
As we reset the cookie station to test a different time limit, she reached for the same frosting bag I did. Our fingers wrapped around it together—close, tight, in a way that didn’t seem accidental at all.
Everything tipped.
She slowly lifted her gaze to mine, like she knew exactly what she was doing and hated that she wanted to do it anyway. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown darker, fear and want all tangled up together.
“Jess,” I said, my voice coming out lower than I intended.
Her fingers tightened on the bag, knuckles brushing my palm. She didn’t move away. Didn’t make a joke. Didn’t roll her eyes or weaponize her sarcasm.
She watched me, like she was waiting to see what I’d do.
I didn’t rush. I leaned in slowly, giving her every inch of space to say no, to step back, to pull the old, familiar armor up around herself.
She didn’t.
Her gaze flicked to my mouth. The quick, instinctive motion locked my resolve. I closed the last inch between us, brushing my lips against hers in the barest, gentlest kiss.
She inhaled sharply, her hand curling into the front of my shirt. The frosting bag dropped to the counter with a soft thump. For one suspended second, everything hung there—the question, the fear, the wanting.
Then Jess kissed me back.
Her mouth moved under mine, tentative at first, then with a slow, gathering certainty. She stepped closer, hips brushing the island, chest barely touching my torso. The faint sweetness of cocoa warmed the edge of every breath we shared. I slid a hand along her jaw, thumb resting beneath her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch with a quiet, helpless exhale that nearly unraveled me.
God, she felt incredible.
Warm. Fierce. Vulnerable in a way that made something protective flare in my chest.
I kissed her again, letting the pressure deepen a fraction, following her lead as she opened for me, as her fingers tightened in my shirt. Heat flared low in my gut, sharp and insistent, but I kept it leashed, kept it slow. This wasn’t about devouring. This was about answering a question that had been hanging between us for a decade.
She shifted closer, and the angle changed so the kiss moved from tentative to something perilously close to hungry. Her tongue brushed mine, light and quick, and my restraint stretched to threadbare in a heartbeat.
I let it deepen for a moment—long enough that the world fuzzed at the edges and every nerve in my body tuned itself to her.
