Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 29645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Controlled.
A performance.
But the way she looked at me under that table?
The way she asked if this was still fake?
There was nothing pretend about the way my body answered.
And next time—if there is a next time—I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to walk away first.
Chapter 7
Sadie
Ishould’ve known something was going to go wrong the moment Mrs. Dottie handed me a clipboard and said, “Interns handle inventory.”
Inventory, apparently, means crawling around the back hallway of the church gymnasium with Levi Kane while folding tables threaten to topple and half the town screams about raffle baskets.
Spring Fundraising Season is a full-contact sport.
“Why am I counting tablecloths?” I mutter, balancing on my toes to reach the top shelf in the storage closet. “I have a degree.”
Behind me, Levi’s voice is dry. “Use it to count.”
I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a fitted black firehouse T-shirt. His jaw’s shadowed. His hair’s slightly damp like he showered too fast before showing up.
He looks like trouble.
He looks like mine.
“Careful, Lieutenant,” I say sweetly. “You sound bossy.”
“I am bossy.”
“That’s debatable.”
His mouth twitches.
The closet smells like dust and old wood polish. It’s narrow, shelves lining both sides, barely enough room for two people to stand without brushing shoulders.
Which we are.
Brushing shoulders.
I shift sideways to grab a box of plastic forks. My hip bumps his thigh. He doesn’t move.
“You’re in my way,” I say.
“You’re in my town.”
My pulse jumps. I twist toward him fully. “Excuse me?”
He leans closer, not quite touching. “You left.”
The words are quiet. Not angry. Just true.
Before I can respond, someone in the hall shouts for more raffle tickets. I grab a bundle from the shelf and turn to squeeze past him toward the door. The lights flicker. The door slams. Then—click.
We’re standing in total darkness.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper.
Silence.
Then Levi’s voice, low and steady. “Don’t move.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re about to walk into a mop bucket.”
I freeze. There’s shuffling. The faint scrape of his boots on linoleum. Then his hand finds my waist. Heat detonates under my skin. I hate that he has this effect on me.
“I said don’t move,” he murmurs.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
His palm tightens slightly, guiding me away from whatever obstacle I was about to trip over. The closet is pitch-black now, only a sliver of light cutting under the door. It’s small. Too small. Too warm.
And Levi’s hand is still on my waist. Neither of us lets go.
“We’re locked in,” I say softly.
“Yeah.”
“You think Mrs. Dottie did that on purpose?”
“Probably.”
I let out a quiet laugh. His thumb shifts slightly against the curve of my hip. It’s barely a movement. It feels like everything.
“Levi,” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“You’re still holding me.”
“I know.”
The air thickens. His body is inches from mine now. I can feel the heat radiating off him. His breath brushes my temple.
“Comforting,” he says evenly.
“Feels possessive.”
His fingers tighten. “Maybe.”
My heart thunders.
“You still jealous?” I tease, trying to steady my voice. “About earlier?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Earlier, one of the younger firefighters—Tyler, I think—had handed me a stack of flyers and said, “Didn’t realize the chief’s daughter got even prettier at college.”
I’d laughed.
Levi had gone very still.
In the darkness, I tilt my chin up toward where I know his face is. “You looked like you wanted to set him on fire.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Jealousy?”
Silence stretches. Then his mouth brushes dangerously close to my ear. “I don’t share.”
The words slide down my spine like a match striking.
My breath catches.
“That wasn’t in the fake dating contract,” I whisper.
“I don’t care.”
The honesty hits harder than I expect.
“You don’t get to claim me,” I say, but it comes out softer than I intend.
His hand shifts higher on my waist, fingers spreading like he’s testing the boundary of my resolve.
“You keep pushing,” he says quietly, “and I will.”
The air between us changes. It’s not playful anymore. It’s loaded.
My palms press against his chest, mostly to keep from swaying into him.
“You don’t get territorial when we’re pretending.”
“Who said I’m pretending?”
The question lands heavy. My stomach flips.
“You said we had rules.”
“I said we had rules for public.”
“And this isn’t public?”
He shifts closer.
Now there’s no space between us at all.
“This,” he says low, “isn’t for the church ladies.”
The darkness sharpens everything. I can’t see his expression. I can only feel him—solid, steady, dangerously close.
“You’re jealous,” I whisper again, because it’s easier than admitting how much I like it.
“I don’t like other men looking at you like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like they’re calculating how to get you alone.”
My lips part. “And you’re not?”
His hand slides slightly higher, resting just below my ribs.
“I don’t calculate,” he says. “I decide.”
Heat floods my veins. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “You don’t own me, Levi.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “But I never stopped wanting to.”
That steals my breath completely.
I swallow.
“You don’t get to rewrite history just because you feel possessive in a closet.”