His gaze doesn’t just meet mine. It drags, slow and deliberate, as if he’s cataloging reactions I didn’t know I was giving away.
And his scent, clean cedar and leather with something darker beneath it, settles deep in my chest.
Expensive. Masculine. Controlled.
My stomach flips.
Nope. Not today!
I do not have the emotional bandwidth for a man who looks like a bad decision my body is already voting hell yes to.
The ice stays pressed to my skin. His fingers do not rush. They linger, steadying me as much as the cold itself.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks.
It’s painfully clear this man sees straight through my bullshit so I tell him the truth.
“Yes.” I admit. “But it’s much better.”
"Good." He adjusts the ice slightly, his touch slow enough to qualify as foreplay. "Five minutes."
I nod, suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the way my skin tingles beneath his touch even where the ice doesn't touch.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” he says evenly, as if the thought never occurred to him not to.
That simple statement lands heavier than it should.
"How did you react so fast? I didn't even see you coming."
"Practice."
Clearly he’s not the talkative type.
His eyes hold mine a beat too long.
I swallow hard. He's reading me. Peeling me open without even trying.
“You always rescue strangers?” I ask, attempting to break the trance.
“Only the ones who catch my eye.”
The words land low.
Intentional.
My pulse stumbles. Yep. Definitely flirting.
“Your accent,” I say softly, more breath than question. “Where are you from?”
His thumb stills for half a second.
“Russia.”
“It… suits you,” I add before I can stop myself.
His gaze sharpens. “Thank you.”
