“You’re a good cook too. Somehow you make vegetables look marginally less nauseating. You have a very particular way you like the dishwasher filled. And I can tell when you’ve had a good or bad day at work.”
“How?”
“When it’s a bad day, you stomp around a little and raid my snack stash before showering. When it’s a good day, you still raid my snacks, but when you shower, you hum a tune that sounds suspiciously like ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ by Taylor Swift.”
He appears semi-amused （and doesn’t deny his shower song）， so I push a little further. “Now that I’ve proven myself, I reserve the right to ask you something important.”
He swallows nervously, bracing for it.
“Who was your first celebrity crush?” I ask, lifting my top half out of the water to get some relief from the heat.
I can’t confirm, but I think Trevor’s eyes drifted to my chest for a fraction of a second.
“He looks like a Pamela Anderson type to me,” Gerald chimes in, jabbing a thumb in Trevor’s direction.
Trevor gives him a look of solidarity. “I liked Pam. Britney Spears too.”
I smirk. “That’s very . . . typical.”
Trevor angles toward Gerald. “Gerald, who was your first celebrity crush?”
“Miss Dolly Parton,” he responds proudly. He waves a hand toward me, signaling it’s my turn.
“I have many. The kid from Casper was probably my very first. But I’d say my first sexual awakening was Zac Efron in his High School Musical days.”
“What got you? The sweeping bangs? The piercing blue eyes?” Trevor asks.
“Definitely his angry dance in High School Musical 2.”
“I won’t even pretend to know what you’re talking about,” he says with a headshake.
“Nowadays, I’m pretty into Dwight Schrute,” I inform.
Trevor chokes. “From The Office?”
“Yup.”
“Do you mean Jim?”
“Nope. Dwight.”
He shoots me a disturbed look. “Are we thinking of the same Dwight? Glasses? Owns a beet farm?”
“The only Dwight on the show,” I confirm. “Okay, hear me out—”
He lobs his head back with his deep laugh. “Are you really going to try to convince me Dwight Schrute gets your motor running?”
“He does. You wouldn’t understand,” I shoot back, drawing my shoulders up in defense.
“What gets you hot? The puke-mustard short-sleeved dress shirts? His affinity for Battlestar Galactica?”
“His pure dedication to Angela, of course. Anyway, you’re distracting me.” I clear my throat, eager to keep this going. “Next question. Why did you become a firefighter?”
Trevor’s face hardens to stone. “It’s not an interesting story.”
“You’re the worst.” When I reach to retighten my bun, I note my fingers are prunes and my hair is starting to frost. It’s time to get out of here. I stand to exit the tub. The moment the frigid air hits my skin, gooseflesh erupts. I make a mad dash for my towel on the lounge chair.
Trevor nods his chin toward Gerald as he steps out of the gurgling water, swim trunks dripping. “Have a good night.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m warm and dry, star-fishing with a book in my usual spot on the living room floor. I’m bundled in my flannel pajamas, partway through my chapter, when Trevor emerges in respectable sweatpants and a T-shirt. I expect him to walk over me and head for the television, or simply judge me from above, but surprisingly, he stretches out on the floor next to me.
“This is weirdly comfortable,” he admits, lining his shoulders up with mine.
“See? It’s amazing. Life-changing,” I say, keeping my eyes on the page.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I have some of my most genius thoughts down here.”
“I’m sure you do,” he says, reading over my shoulder. “What’s this book about? Looks like a cowboy romance.”
“You’d be correct.”
“Second-chance?”
“Indeed. And a secret baby too. My favorite.” He chuckles softly, and there’s a beat of silence before I turn onto my side, facing him. “You’re a good friend for coming with me tonight,” I say, staring at his dense lash line with envy. My fatigue is causing me to see two Trevors, which is less disturbing than it should be.
A tiny grin forms. “I’m sure any one of your other friends would have done the same.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have all that many friends. Aside from Crystal and Mel, and realistically, Crystal has to be my friend by default. Sometimes I feel like they’re a bit dismissive of me. When I told them about the ex thing, they laughed it off like it was a joke.” It’s not that I don’t love Crystal and Mel. They’re my best friends. But sometimes I can’t help but feel like a third wheel.
He watches me thoughtfully. “I don’t believe you have a hard time making friends.”
“It’s harder than you’d think, especially at thirty. I have lots of acquaintances. But close friends I could call up last minute and snuggle with? Not so much.”
“Hm. That surprises me. They’re missing out.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
One glance at his tiny, stubborn smile and my stomach flutters. My body tenses with new awareness of the press of his shoulder against mine.
My thoughts are spinning, aching to unpack my body’s reaction to his touch, but my mind is pulled elsewhere—to his eyes. The kitchen light illuminates the rich ring of dense forest green, surrounded by another loop of gold in his irises.
Our shared gaze holds for a beat longer than casual before his eyes fall to my mouth. His throat bobs with a slow, almost hesitant swallow, and his jaw goes soft.
Based on my extensive catalog of romance knowledge from books and film, these are signs of an impending kiss.
Trevor Metcalfe wants to kiss me.
? chapter twelve
MY MIND IS fuzzy static.
I can neither do nor think of anything but the quickened pace of my breath and the dizzying way Trevor has pinned me in place with just one look.
Instinctively, I sweep my tongue over my bottom lip. Electricity courses between us in wavy cartoon lines. The mental barrier I’ve placed to convince myself he is not my type has vanished into a poof of swirling black and purple smoke.
I don’t know if it’s the liquid courage, the fact that my date with Brandon went sideways, or the steam from the hot tub, but I do the unthinkable. I inch closer, pressing my arm flat against his. Close enough that his face blurs entirely. He doesn’t move, allowing the radiating heat of our labored breath to collide and pass through each other, in and out.
My heart thrashes wildly, and I’m convinced I can hear his too, syncing with mine in a tangled, pulsing rhythm. Encouraged by the comfort of our proximity, I position my head just so, for the perfect alignment of our lips. He holds himself there, tentative, the tip of his nose grazing mine like a whisper.
I ache for him to put me out of my misery, close that millimeter of desperate air, and brush his soft lips against mine.
But instead, his eyes snap open, wide with fear as I approach. He’s on his feet faster than the Flash, dodging me like I’m a toothless sex predator.