Chapter 8: A Touch of Courage
The word “hot” hung in the air between them, charged and stupid. Debbie forced a laugh, a brittle sound that cracked in her dry throat. She flapped a hand in front of her face, feeling the prickle of sweat at her hairline that was only partly from the afternoon sun. “Yeah, just… the weeding. Killer on a day like this.”
Matt grinned, completely accepting the fiction. He lifted an arm, tilting his head to sniff his own underarm. He made a face, a comical wrinkle of his nose. “Speaking of which… man, I’m ripe. Should probably hose off before I stink up the whole house.”
A sharp, irrational pang of loss shot through Debbie. That scent—warm, earthy, unmistakably him—was going to be washed down the drain. She’d been immersed in it, a secret tide in the close laundry room air. She clutched her basket of folded towels like a shield. “Right. Of course.”
He padded past her, his bare feet whispering on the linoleum. She held her breath, every cell in her body hyper-aware of the space he occupied, the heat radiating from his skin as he moved through the doorway and into the hall. The sight of his retreating back, the easy swing of his arms, was imprinted on her vision.