3. Heather
HEATHER
“I don’t understand why I need to pack a bag if you’re installing my Ring camera,” I say as I stand just inside the front door to my rental, watching Dean mount the gift he bought me last Christmas.
I feel guilty that it’s been sitting in the box for the past six months, but I’m clueless when it comes to electronic devices.
Dean was always the one I called for things like this.
But I stupidly went and kissed him in Nana’s garage last Christmas and screwed up everything between us.
Which is why I’m still shocked that he not only came to my rescue last night and saved me from the world’s creepiest date, but also insisted I sleep in his bed.
His insanely comfy bed. I haven’t slept that well in ages.
If it wasn’t for Aries swatting me in the face repeatedly with his tail this morning, I might still be under those covers bed rotting.
I’m still confused why Dean gave up that heavenly cloud and took the stiff-as-a-board couch when I’m the one who inconvenienced him.
I’ve tried to convince myself that the protective thing is because he sees me like a sister.
That he’s looking out for me because my bestie is two hundred miles away for the weekend.
But the way he looked at me last night when I came into the kitchen wearing the T-shirt he loaned me says something very different.
Or at least I want it to.
How long have I wished Dean would look at me like he wanted to devour me for dessert?
Since I was fifteen. That’s how long. Gah.
It’s just a stupid crush I’ve known better than to act on for nearly two decades until Nana’s eggnog got involved.
I was having a low moment and figured what the hell?
But when the realization of what I’d just done dawned on me, I was horrified. The look on his face seemed to agree.
Besides, if Dean felt the same way, he wouldn’t have avoided me since that kiss, right?
“Gage hasn’t been able to track the perp down,” Dean says in that signature grumpy baritone, his expression chiseled into cold, hard seriousness.
“So, I have to stay with you until he does?”
“Is that so terrible?” he asks, moving past me, a hint of spice and sandalwood passing by me.
An aroma I know all too well after sleeping in his bed last night.
I grip the sides of my shorts to keep from reaching for him.
Because that’s all I need. Another embarrassing moment where I lose control of my sanity and make things ten times more awkward between us.
“I just want a day or two to watch the cameras,” Dean says, headed for the Ring box he left on the dining room table. “Make sure he doesn’t show up uninvited.”
“For the record, I hate this.” I’m not the damsel in distress type. I’ve been on dozens of dates over the past couple of years. Most of them were duds, and more than a handful were downright terrible. But this was the first time I ever felt afraid.
I don’t do afraid.
“I’ll be at the fire station all day, so I won’t be in your way. And I know Aries would appreciate the company.”
“When did you get a cat, anyway?” I tried to ask him last night when I came out of the bedroom for a glass of water, but he just grunted something like I’m tired and left me standing there to find my own cup.
“Found him at a fire scene about three months ago.”
“No one’s claimed him?”
“Nope. He doesn’t have a chip, and no one responded to my posts on the local lost pet sites.”
“So you gave him a home.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
I smile at that. The man might be chronically grumpy, but I’ve always known there’s a heart of gold beneath those stone-cold layers. This just proves my theory further. “I didn’t see you as the cat type.”
“I didn’t either.” He looks up at me, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. “We’re both grumpy pains in the ass. He grew on me.”
“See, not an inaccurate nickname.”
He holds my gaze across the table for what might be two seconds or ten. All I know is that it’s longer than he’s looked me in the eye in a very long time. My pulse trips over itself, and I grip the top of my dining room chair to steady my suddenly wobbly knees.
This is pathetic.
This whole dating spree started because I wanted to get over this ridiculous crush.
Now what the hell do I do?
“Heather?”
“Yeah?” I ask, automatically wetting my lips as though he’s about to move around the table and kiss me into oblivion.
“You packed yet?”
“Doing it now.” I spin away quickly, feeling my cheeks heat.
Get a fucking grip, Heather.
Can I not be totally embarrassing for two full minutes?
I’m going to stay with Dean because I know it’s safer than being a sitting duck in my own place until we know Jonathan the Jackass isn’t circling the neighborhood waiting to pounce with an AI-generated family album and a rag doused in chloroform.
But I’d be lying to myself if I said this wasn’t a bad idea.