He leans back against the door, arms crossed, and watches me drip melted snow onto his floorboards.
I clutch the envelope like body armor. “So. This is awkward.”
He grunts—actually grunts.
I try again. “Twelve years ago, we were both in Las Vegas. Elvis may or may not have been involved.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Recognition? Annoyance? Both?
He still doesn’t speak.
I blow out a breath that fogs in the air between us. “I was there for a bachelorette party. You were fresh off a plane from somewhere sandy, I think. We had drinks, and then we—”
“Got married,” he finishes, voice flat.
My stomach flips. “Yeah. That.”
Silence stretches so thick I can hear the fire snap.
I shift my weight. My boots squeak. “I didn’t know it was real. I thought the chapel people said no paperwork would be filed. My great-aunt died, left me everything, but the title company found the marriage. There’s a law about both parties needing to sign the paperwork or provide proof of divorce. I need your signature.”
I hold out the envelope again, but he still doesn’t take it.
Instead, he pushes off the door and stalks toward me—one slow step, two—until he’s close enough that I have to tip my head back to hold his stare. Heat rolls off him in waves. I swear the temperature in here jumps ten degrees.
“You drove up my mountain,” he says, low and deliberate, “in a blizzard that’s about to shut down half the state, to hand me divorce papers.”
I nod. My throat is suddenly bone-dry.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there. “That’s some dedication, Vixen.”
The old nickname hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.
He remembers.
I swallow hard. “Look, I know this is insane.” I shove the envelope at his chest. “Just sign, please.”
He finally takes it, but instead of opening the envelope, he sets it on the counter without looking. Then he turns back to me, arms loose at his sides, and the air between us crackles like the fire behind him.
“Coffee?” he asks.
I blink. “What?”
“You’re shaking. Coffee or something stronger?”
My hands are trembling. “Something stronger.”
He pours two shots of Fireball into coffee cups, hands me one. Our fingers brush, and electricity shoots straight up my arm and detonates somewhere behind my ribs.
He raises his cup. “To old times.”
I clink mine against his and toss it back. The cinnamon burns all the way down, pooling hot in my belly.
He watches me lick a stray drop from my lip, eyes darkening.
I set the cup down too hard. “So… the papers?”
He pours two more shots. “We’ll get to them.”
