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“It was an accident,” I reply, avoiding her eyes.

“A caramel accident?” She asks, tracing the rim of the cup with one finger.

“Yes,”

She takes the cup, and our fingers touch. That small contact shouldn't mean anything, but it means everything. Her teasing look fades for a moment, and her breath catches. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she feels it too. That realization is more dangerous than any flirting. Then she sips through the straw, closes her eyes, and lets out a quiet sound of appreciation. My whole body tenses at the sound, and I let out a soft groan. Her eyes open, and she gives me a slight smile, letting me know she knows exactly what she just did.

“Perfect,” Kira murmurs, cradling the cup with both hands.

“Go to work,” I tell her, though I hate how soon she has to leave.

“Bossy.” Kira backs toward the door.

“Kira,” I warn, but there is no heat behind it.

“See you tomorrow, Ross,” she calls, smiling over her shoulder. She turns toward the door, and my gaze drops. Damn it.

“Stop staring at her butt,” Heather whispers.

“I wasn't,” I growl, turning back to the register.

“You absolutely were,” Heather insists, without bothering to lower her voice.

The bell jingles as Kira leaves and I watch her walk toward Temptation Ink, the tattoo shop she and her brother, Keanu, run. Then I look at my three younger sisters. Heather is grinning. Brandi is standing in the kitchen doorway. And Maddie has apparently come downstairs from the office just in time to witness my humiliation. Three matching expressions stare back at me.

“Don’t.” I turn to face my sisters before they can start.

Maddie shrugs her shoulders. “We haven't said anything.”

“You don't have to.” I shift my attention to the counter.

“You like her,” Brandi moves closer.

“I tolerate her,” I say, straightening the cup sleeves.

“You made her a caramel heart.” Heather points out.

“It was an accident,” I grumble, and all three of my sisters laugh. I point toward the kitchen, done with their teasing. “Work.”

Maddie doesn't move. “Actually, we've been discussing something.”

“That sentence never ends well,” I mutter, eyeing Maddie warily.

“We think you need to loosen up.” Maddie and Brandi exchange a look.

“I’m fine,” I answer, wiping a counter that's already clean.

“You threatened a delivery driver yesterday because he stacked the oat milk the wrong way,” Brandi reminds me, lifting a carton of oat milk.

“He stacked it incorrectly,” I reply, taking the carton from her.

“You alphabetize the syrups.” Heather points to the neatly labeled bottles.

“That's called organization,” I explain, refusing to look embarrassed.

“You own seven identical flannel shirts,” Maddie adds, counting on her fingers.

“They're different colors,” I argue, tugging at my sleeve.