Page 97 of When Sky Breaks

“If you say so,” he says, stooping under a garland of fall leaves hanging perpendicular to a storefront and a light pole.

“Although, if this was a Hallmark movie, you’d be professing your love for me after performing all sorts of heroic and meaningful acts of service.” I laugh as he raises his brows at me. “Oh wait, you already did that.”

Leaning in, he growls into my ear, the hairs on my neck standing. “Let’s not forget, Shortcake, my tastes for you runs a little hotter than G for General Audiences.”

Thankfully, the crisp fall morning disguises the flush warming my cheeks. We haven’t had sex yet, but it’s only a matter of time before we give into those desires that feel like burning coals under our skin when we touch.

Before I can reply, my phone alerts me to a text.

I frown as I read.

“Everything okay?” August asks.

We stop and I tap out a reply while he holds my coffee. “Yeah. Trek isn’t going to make it to the set-up today. Says he’s got something going on.” I wonder if it has to do with what he has yet to tell me about. “Probably best since you two haven’t chatted, I assume.”

August hands me my cup and adjusts the straps on his camera bag. “We’re big boys. We can handle being in the same room as each other, but it’s okay. I’d probably be distracted, anyway.”

“I’m sure. There’s a lot to photograph today. We have to get as much of the inside put together as we can.” We wait at the crosswalk with a few other people.

For the second time, August leans down and speaks in my ear, sending even more goosebumps than the first time, along with the scent of hazelnut coffee and blueberry scones. “I wasn’t talking about taking pictures.”

“Oh.” I practically giggle like a silly schoolgirl as the light turns and we’re allowed to cross. “Well, we can’t have that happen, can we? Don’t want the people to get grumpy with how terribly out of focus the pictures are in the paper.”

August pulls me into his side and plants a kiss on my temple. “Luckily, I’m a pro at editing them.”

It’s nice to feel this carefree with him. Like when we were younger. My cheeks ache from smiling, and my heart swells. He seems happier too, the guilt not as prominent in his stormy eyes.

In a way, that piece of history will always be there in the background of our lives. We’ll never truly get away from it. Hopefully, my forgiveness is good enough for August to learn to forgive himself.

We walk to the firehouse to find it crowded with volunteers carrying box after box toward the back where the haunted house stands, all walls erected and painted black as night.

It’s the guts we’re working on today. The house is divided into six different sections or rooms that people will roam through, and I’m tasked with setting up a spooky kitchen.

“I’ll be quick and join you in a few.” August kisses my cheek and saunters away, giving me a fabulous view of his ass. It’s truly unfair how good he looks in jeans.

Spinning, I walk inside the house, stepping around boxes of plastic severed heads and bloody hands. The room I’m in has faux cabinets and countertops made from thick cardboard boxes, a real fridge, and a wooden kitchen table and chairs. A fake window above a sink houses an image of a werewolf howling at the moon under the bare branches of a black tree.

My hands on my hips, I survey everything. Where do I even start? Reading enough murder mysteries should put me at an advantage, but it’s a lot different transferring from paper to reality.

After a few minutes of contemplation, maybe a few Internet searches for inspiration, and one phone call to Phoebe, the queen of scary movies, I have my ideas ready to go.

With trepidation, I reach into a box, shrieking once my fingers connect to a slimy zombie head. Gingerly, I pull it all the way out by its stringy black hair and toss it in the fake microwave with a shudder.

“You all right there?”

Startled, I twist and watch August step into the room, an amused expression on his face as he sets his camera down. “I’m guessing you heard that?”

He chuckles and swipes a lock of hair from his forehead, leaving me momentarily out of sorts. His rumbly laugh and fringe that never wants to cooperate is catnip. “Not exactly thick walls in here, Shortcake.”

I flush and turn back to the box. “Are you here to help or make fun of me?”

August reaches over my shoulder to pull out a large plastic rat with gnashing teeth and tosses it on the table with a thunk next to another one. His hands then roam up the side of my ribcage, settling right under my breasts. Sparks ignite in my body, and I wait for him to move them further. North, south, I don’t care. I just want his hands on me.

Disappointment doesn’t even cover it when he removes them, kisses my head, and says, “I was thinking we could make bloody hands somehow shoot out of the toaster as soon as people walk in.”

Picking up a package of fake blood from the box, he examines the liquid sloshing inside while I stand here, one raging hormone after another, plotting how and when he’s going to make the first move.

“So basically, a grown-up version of a Jack-in-the-box,” I muse, cringing as I open another box to find a hideous clown with sharp incisors and a bunch of fake rusty daggers in a Ziplock bag.

---