His voice is low, close to her ear. “Sorry.”
Her breath catches. Because his hand is strong. And very much still on her arm.
And for some horrifying, hormone-driven reason, her entire body goes traitorously soft.
She blinks. Her brain fuzzes. Her knees wobble.
He lets go, stepping back. But the imprint of his touch hums under her skin, like a struck chord that won't quiet.
Her stomach sinks as she takes in the scene beyond the glass.
“Oh no.”
Outside, the sidewalk glistens under a sheet of solid ice. Freezing rain coats every surface, like someone lacquered it. The sky is a grimy smear of sleet gray. People outside hunch their shoulders and shuffle along like penguins, bracing against the wind. A car skids slightly at the intersection, tires catching and jerking before crawling forward again.
There is absolutely no way she’s making it back to the office in time.
She groans. “I have a client call in fifteen minutes and if I miss it, Richard will actually eat me alive.”
Squeezing her phone tighter, her pulse races as panic prickles her scalp. She can’t reschedule. She can’t be late. She can’t be that person. Not when she’s trying so hard to prove she can handle it all.
Tall shifts beside her. “I mean…he probably won’t eat you. You’re too spicy for that guy.”
Naomi shoots him a withering look. “Not the time.”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking vaguely apologetic. “I didn’t think it was this bad out.”
“Well,” she mutters, gesturing to the icy apocalypse outside, “surprise.”
They stand there for a beat, staring out at the freezing mess.
Then Tall clears his throat.
“You want me to?—”
Naomi turns to him sharply. “What?”
He doesn’t finish.
Her lungs cinch tight. Her breaths come too fast, too shallow, like there’s no room in her chest for air or logic.
Oh no. Panic. Actual panic.
CHAPTER 10
GARRETT
Garrett jogs down the length of the locker room, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile. His tablet’s in one hand, a useless rectangle of glass.
Where the hell is his charger?
He checks the cubby above his stall. Nothing. Equipment bag—empty. Jacket pocket—tape, pack of gum, still no charger. He must have left it at the hotel, like a rookie.
Shit.
He mutters under his breath and shoves the tablet under his arm, scanning the room like the damn thing might sprout legs and walk back to him. No such luck. Just the usual tape scraps under the benches, the sharp stench of sweat and gloves, and Jesse, hunched over his phone, drinking a chocolate protein shake.
Garrett’s pulse kicks harder. Not panic. Just…irritation at his situation. He said she could use the tablet, and now it’s about to die right in the middle of whatever meeting she’s stressing about.
