Page 4

Then he hisses.

At the glass.

The air in the shop turns cold enough to bite.

"That's not creepy at all," I whisper.

Gage grabs the mirror. I grab his wrist.

"Hey!"

His skin is hot under my fingers. Too hot. Fever hot.

His eyes snap to mine, and the air between us pulls tight. The tiny orange lights strung around the shop stutter like they can't decide whether to live. His pupils blow wide and dark, and my mouth goes dry.

For six months I've pretended I don't wonder what kissing my giant broody neighbor would be like.

It's getting inconvenient.

I drop his wrist. "Don't steal my merchandise."

"Throw it out."

"It's worth a lot of money."

"I'll pay you."

I laugh. "You're not buying my haunted mirror."

His face darkens, and I stop laughing.

"Gage."

"Get rid of it."

The back of my neck prickles. "Why?"

He doesn't answer. The man communicates primarily through jaw tension.

I put my hands on my hips. "Are you planning to murder me or finally ask me out?"

His head turns toward me. Slowly.

Oops.

Normally I can lob comments like that at him because he ignores them. This time he steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I have to tip my head back, close enough to catch cedar and woodsmoke and a wilder scent underneath that no soap has ever made.

My pulse jumps.

"If I asked you out," he says, quietly, "would you say yes?"

Well. That wasn't supposed to happen.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

His eyes drop to my lips. My entire body votes yes without consulting me.

Traitor.