Her cheeks turn pink with shame, as pink as the rose bushes surrounding the gazebo. We’ve gravitated together during the conversation, and she seems to be realizing just now how close together we are.
“Um, it’s cold. I should—” She steps back quickly. When she does, her bare foot collides with one of the cans of paint. It tips, tumbles, and soaks her ankles and the bottom hem of the blanket with off-white flecks.
“s**t!” she gasps as she stumbles forward too late to dodge it. Her foot catches the edge of the blanket, throwing her off-balance, and she trips right into my arms.
I catch her out of pure instinct. But once my hands are on her, it’s like they’re fused there. I couldn’t pull them off if I tried.
“You’re warm,” she whispers back.
There it is again—the pulse of a moment that f
