Uh-oh, here it was. “What?”
“You called my workplace a shack. I’ll have you know that this is aforge.”
“Oh, well,sorry.” Uma sounded snarky, but she couldn’t help it. Nor could she help the tiny smile that came with it.
“And don’t worry—wife position’s still open.”
“Oh. No, I mean… I’m not…” Uma sputtered, feeling like an idiot. He winked, and she had to glance away.
When she finally worked up the courage to look him in the face again, he was smiling. A real one. Wide mouth and big white teeth.
And just like that, it was back—that image of Ivan the warrior, fueled by bloodlust, his mouth open in a battle cry. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch.
“Where you from, Uma?” His words emerged slowly, rolling like so much lava down the rocky face of a volcano. Slow as they were, their heat snuck up on her, made her want to respond just to keep him talking.
She kept her answer vague. “Up north.”
He nodded. “Don’t want to talk about it,” he rumbled, more to himself than to her.
“Not really.”
He made a slightly impatient sound. It was an odd contrast: impatience from such a slow, careful man. He seemed to have a whole different concept of time. It reminded her of those big tree creatures inThe Lord of the Rings. The Ents.
She took a swig of her drink, enjoying the burn from throat to belly.
Again, neither of them said a thing for a stretch, lost in a companionable quiet. He finally broke it. “What’s someone like you doin’ in Blackwood?”
“Someone like me?” The question jarred her out of her comfort, raised her hackles.
“Yeah, you know…” He hesitated, and color rose to his cheeks, two burning flags outlining the sharp bones below his eyes. “City girl like you.”
“Hey!” Uma wasn’t quite sure why it felt like an insult, but it did. “Why would you say that?”
“Don’t worry. Ain’t your fault where you’re from.” Another smile. It softened his words.
She couldn’t help but smile in return. “Yeah, right. What about you? Did you grow up around here?”
“Yep. Born and bred.”
“Nice place. Blackwood, I mean.”
“Has its moments, I guess. So, what brings you here, princess?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”
“Sure. Got it.”
“And don’t…call me a princess.”
“’Course not. Didn’t mean a thing by it.” Ivan’s voice was gentle, and Uma had a realization. Despite the warrior image his size conjured, she suddenly saw him as he probably was: a big, shy man with confusing eyes, an unruly beard, and a ridiculously named leg warmer of a dog.
“I don’t really like to talk about myself.”
“Okay,” he said, nearly smiling again. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
She huffed out a tiny laugh. “Hell if I know.”
“Big conversationalist, huh?”
