I shake my head. “I can’t go today.”

“And why is that, may I ask?”

Because things happened between Carter and me last night, and it was supposed to be nothing, but it felt . . . like something.

I need to stay away from him for long enough for the buzz in my blood to fade. Since the thought of those dark eyes and that arrogant smile has my stomach doing Olympic-level gymnastics, I think it’s fair to say I’m not there yet. A girl doesn’t simply forget getting finger-fucked senseless by Carter Jackson, let alone forget it in less than twelve hours. “I need to clean the house.”

Shay looks around, obviously not buying it. “Your floor is still gleaming from the housekeeper. Try again.”

I shrug. “Maybe I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t want to because you’re avoiding him, or because you’re avoiding us?”

I snort. “Can’t it be both?”

“You two looked awfully cozy last night.”

I sigh. “It was . . . He was only . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. He told me when I saw him in the parking lot after. It was all pretend.”

Oh, this sneaky bitch. I glare at her. “If you saw him leaving alone, then you knew I wasn’t in his bed this morning.”

“I didn’t know for sure. You could have gone to his place after having Molly drop you off here. Trust me, I’ve jumped through bigger hoops to keep my own rendezvous secret from my family.”

I arch a brow. “Do tell.”

“Oh no. You’re not getting off the hook that easy. We’re talking about you and Carter right now.”

I pad to the other side of the island that separates my kitchen from my living and dining area. I’m still struggling to keep my eyes open. This morning—this conversation—calls for coffee. “You’re overthinking this,” I mutter. “I promise you, there’s no secret relationship you’ve been missing out on.”

“But you weren’t just pretending. I saw you two dancing. Any closer, and I’d be asking if you used protection.”

I yank out the carafe and shove it under the faucet. “Don’t start with the matchmaker stuff.”

“If you insist,” she says with a sigh.

I pour the water into the back of the pot, grind beans, and dump them into the filter while she toys with her phone. When I flip the pot on, she wanders into the kitchen, still staring at the screen.

“Here,” she says, handing me her phone. “You might need to know about this.”

My stomach drops. On her screen is a picture of me dancing in Carter’s arms, his forehead touching mine as I smile up at him, his arms wrapped around me and holding me close. We look . . . deliriously smitten. The headline above it reads, “Foxy Fireman’s Charity Auction Takes Unexpected Romantic Turn.”

I look at Shay, who’s smirking like she played her trump card. “Is this local?”

“That is. The local paper got the picture, but it was picked up by some tiny online gossip pages. You’re lucky Carter fever has mostly died down, or this would be everywhere. People love their puppy-rescuing firefighter, and they love a good romance.”