"Juliet says the rec center's been organizing the Winter Warm-Up Drive for twenty years. Coat and blanket donations, kids' boot fittings, and a mini market for fundraising."
He watches the shoreline pull closer, but I catch him looking at me in his peripheral vision. "You say that like I'm going to enjoy it."
"You might. It's a lot of people. Not all of them bite."
"They're missing out." The way he says it, low and almost predatory, sends heat straight through me. My eyebrows rise.
"Was that a joke?"
Silas rubs his hand over his mouth. "Maybe."
"I didn't know you made jokes. You know, I wondered if you were going to be weird away from the ice. But I never thought you'd be funny."
"I'm an enigma," he says, looking off over the water. I catch the smirk on his lips, though.
Oh, this is a side of him I've never seen before. And it might be more deadly than his usual growly, alpha asshole-ness. Be still my freaking heart.
The captain announces our approach over the loudspeaker. As we file toward the gangway with other footpassengers, Silas stays close behind me, close enough I feel his body heat. His hand hovers near my lower back when someone jostles past, not quite touching but there, protective. The gesture shouldn't affect me but it does.
Come on, self. Pull it together, I think.Not everything he does can be swoon-worthy.
The town spreads before us like a postcard once we dock. Two blocks of storefronts with cedar shingles, dark firs pressing in at the edges. The rec center sits at the end of the street, a brick building with paper snowflakes taped to the windows and a banner reading KEEP WARM, STAY KIND.
Inside, the gym smells like wet wool and coffee. Volunteers bustle around sorting donations while children's voices echo off the walls. Silas shoulders through the vestibule and freezes when three elementary schoolers stare at him with open mouths.
"Is that a Seattle Havoc player?" one whispers loudly. "He's on my poster!"
I step between them and Silas, accidentally brushing against his chest. He goes rigid at the contact, but now's not the moment for Silas and me to size each other up. The kids are still whispering amongst themselves.
"Don't crowd," I tell the group gently. "Mr. Huxley will be around. He's here to help."
The kids gawp at me as if I just confirmed that Santa was real and would be making an appearance. I glance at Silas over my shoulder. The look he gives me is pure heat disguised as irritation. It feels like a physical touch and I have to look away before I do something stupid like lean back into him.
The coordinator, a brisk woman with bright eyes, hands us clipboards. "You're here! Thank god. We weren't sure the Havoc assignments would show."
"What?" Silas scowls at her. "Of course we're here."
"What he means is," I say, smiling pointedly at Silas. "We're here to help. Put us to work, coach. Just no heavy lifting for him, please."
She nods. "Boot stations on the tables over there, coats over by the far wall, blankets on the tables in between. Media arrives in an hour. Try not to vanish before then."
"I'll tie him to a chair if I have to," I say. Immediately regretting the image that puts in my head. Silas, squirming, at my mercy. God help me.
"Good girl," she beams before rushing off.
"She seems friendly," Silas grunts. He watches her go with a suspicious expression.
I wave his comment off. "She's a busy lady. Come on, let's help her get these boxes sorted before people start arriving."
Silas follows me to the coat tables, shrugging out of his jacket in one fluid movement that makes his shirt ride up, revealing a strip of skin above his jeans. I look away quickly but not before he catches me looking. He smirks as he lifts a box.
"Light stuff," I warn. My voice comes out breathier than intended.
He snorts, then immediately proves me right when the box tilts sideways and mittens cascade everywhere. A five-year-old in a purple jacket gasps at the tragedy. Silas freezes halfway between embarrassment and cursing.
"Emergency," I gasp, being dramatic. "Mittens down!"
Purple Jacket scrambles to help while I crouch next to Silas to gather the spillage. Our hands brush as we both reach for the same mitten. The contact jolts through me like static electricity. His fingers linger against mine for a heartbeat before pulling away.
