The next day, I returned the umbrella to him.
Or at least, that was the plan.
The truth was—I just wanted to see him again.
He took the umbrella from me, nodding lightly.
But then he looked at my wet sleeves.
"You came through the rain?" he asked.
I looked away. "It wasn't that bad."
He sighed softly.
"You're going to make me worry at this rate."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He probably didn't even realize what he said.
But the way he said it—low, warm, unguarded—made my stomach flutter uncontrollably.
"You shouldn't worry about me," I whispered.
"Too late," he murmured back.
For a moment, the café felt too small.
Too intimate.
Too dangerous.