Page 122 of Lighting the Lamp
“I can’t imagine anyone being foolish enough to fall for that,” she says, all wide-eyed innocence.
“Hey, Beau, didn’t she—” Cole smirks.
“Don’t,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. The muscle in my jaw jumps, my grip on the edge of the table tightening until my knuckles ache. My pulse kicks, hot and quick, and I can feel the weight of her attention on me even if I don’t look at her.
The word hangs in the air like a slammed door, and for a beat, the entire table feels it before the conversation shifts, everyone pretending it never happened. But I won’t take them back. I see the flicker in her eyes—curiosity, maybe guilt, maybe nothing at all—and it hooks into me. My jaw tightens, the same stupid flare of possessiveness tightening in my chest. She shouldn’t have been wearing his jersey. I don’t care that it was his last game or that he’s my older brother. Alise shouldn’t be wearing anyone’s jersey but mine. The thought is reckless, possessive, but it digs in and refuses to let go. I shift in my seat, shoulders tense, trying to ignore the fact that my heart’s still thudding like I’m about to take a slapshot to the chest.
The conversation moves on like nothing happened, but the air between us doesn’t. A little later, Momma calls for more lemonade, and I move around the table, my attention already pulled toward Alise. She shifts back to give me room, and her knee brushes mine under the bench—a warm, deliberate graze. The contact is nothing and everything at the same time.
My forearm grazes the bare skin of her arm as I stretch past her. Heat flares where we touch, sharp and instant, and I’m gone. I want more than I should, more than I can afford. My fingers twitch, wanting to thread into her halo of hair, to pull her closer to see how she’d look flushed and breathless for me. I fight it, not because I don’t want to, but because the urge is so sharp it scares me. If I give in now, I know I won’t stop.
The air between us is hot enough to burn. My pulse is still hammering from the kiss last night, from the feel of her mouth under mine, from the way she’s looking at me like I’ve just given her something she’s been waiting for. I don’t want to let her go,not now, maybe not ever. But she’s watching me, unblinking, and it’s not just my pulse that trips. There’s a weight in her gaze, like she’s testing me, daring me to be the first to break.
“What?” I murmur, my voice lower than I intend.
“Nothing.” She tilts her head, lips curling like she knows exactly what’s going through my mind.
It’s a lie, and we both know it, but two can play at this game. The corner of my mouth lifts, but there’s no humor in it. I lean down, slow enough for the space between us to thicken, my voice skimming her ear. “Better be nothing.”
Her breath has the smallest hitch, punching through my restraint. Every muscle in my body is tightening with the urge to close that inch between us again. I’m about to kiss her, audience be damned. God help me, I need to, but before I can push it further, a loud, drawn-out whistle cuts through the moment.
“Get a room,” Kyle calls from across the yard, grinning like a kid who knows he’s just lit a fuse. Darius is right behind him, balancing a plate stacked high enough to qualify as an engineering feat.
“Seriously,” Darius adds, eyebrows raised as he drops into the seat across from Alise. “Some of us are trying to eat without choking on the tension.”
Heat floods her cheeks, and she shoves back from the table. “I’m going to… check on dessert.”
She’s halfway to the house before I even think about stopping her. My grip tightens around the glass, the cool condensation slick against my palm, jaw locked as I watch her retreat. Each step she takes away from me feels like a dare, like she knows I’m not built to let her walk off like that, and she’s right.
I push back from the table, standing too fast, my chair legs scraping against the patio. I grab the lemonade pitcher, refilling my mom’s cup just to keep my hands busy. When I hand it backto her, she takes a sip and eyes me over the rim like she’s not buying a single ounce of my fake composure.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she says, her tone all warmth and just a hint of suspicion.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Cooper asks, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing like he already knows.
“Yeah,” Cole adds with a smirk. “Gonna give Alise a private lesson in… stickhandling?”
“Stickhandling? Is that what we’re calling it now?” Kyle barks out, unable to hold back, and even Ramona leans back in her chair, grinning like she’s about to chime in with something worse.
“Just make sure you put the pitcher back, lover boy. Some of us actually want lemonade.” Bower shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me but can’t hide his smile.
The table bursts into laughter. Even Alise, halfway to the porch, shoots them a look over her shoulder, cheeks flushed, eyes sparking, before turning away quickly.
“Eat your food,” I mutter, not bothering to give their comments a second thought, and hand off the pitcher. “You’re all nosy as hell.”
“Nosy?” Cole shoots back with a grin. “You’re basically writing us an open letter right now.”
Their cheers follow me, but it doesn’t slow me down. The chatter from the yard dulls as I step inside. The cool air wraps around me, carrying the sweet scent of pie. Alise is at the counter, fussing with a dessert she doesn’t actually care about, shoulders tense like she’s aware I’m here but pretending otherwise.
She moves toward the doorway, and I don’t step out of her way. She brushes past me, her curls catching along my jaw—soft, deliberate—and my pulse spikes. Her hip grazes mine, justenough to leave me wondering if she’s trying to kill me or just testing how close I am to breaking.
The answer’s close. So fucking close.
She slips through the back door, and I catch her hand, steering her away from the others in the yard. We move around the side of the house, where the shadows stretch long and the voices fade to a low hum. We’re close enough that if anyone rounded the corner, they’d see us, but hidden enough to feel alone. Cedar smoke drifts through the air from the grill, mixing with the earthy scent of the maple trees and the damp bite of freshly watered grass.
“Not in the mood for an audience,” I say, my voice low, still thrumming with that post-game edge.
“Funny. I thought you just wanted to check on the pies.”
