“Big talk from the menace who committed attempted murder via a plastic tray,” I muttered, but it didn’t have any teeth.
She grinned at me, so close now I could see individual snowflakes caught in the ends of her hair, melting against the knit of her hat. Her cheeks were bright, lips flushed, eyes blown wide with excitement and something that looked a hell of a lot like triumph.
She hadn’t just wanted to drag me outside.
She’d wanted this. Proof. That I could still do something stupid and fun and not break.
The realization hit harder than the hill.
Clara shifted on the sled, boots digging into the snow so she could turn toward me. The movement brought her knee up against my thigh, a solid, casual press that my body treated like a live wire. She was close enough that her breath brushed my cheek when she laughed again, softer this time, still edged with adrenaline.
“You screamed,” she said, eyes bright with mischief. “Just for the record.”
“I did not scream,” I grumbled.
Her grin sharpened. “There was definitely a suspiciously high-pitched noise.”
“It was a perfectly reasonable exhale,” I said. “Caused by you shoving a one-legged man off a hill.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes, the movement tugging her scarf askew and exposing the shallow curve of her throat above her collar. “If I’d waited for you to push off on your own, we’d still be at the top arguing about incline angles.”
I snorted, even as my pulse picked up. “I guess you’re not wrong.”
Her sled had drifted crooked, so she planted one boot in the snow and scooted closer to brace herself, fingers catching on my jacket. Her gloved hand landed on my chest, palm flat over my sternum, just long enough to steady her balance.
The contact was light, fabric to fabric. My body didn’t know the difference.
Heat punched through me, fast and hot, settling low between my thighs. My heartbeat kicked under her hand, thudding against my ribs hard enough I was half convinced she could feel it through the layers.
She must have, because her eyes flicked down to where her hand rested, then back up to my face. Some of the wild, delighted chaos in her expression shifted into something hotter, more focused.
“See?” she said quietly, fingers curling slightly in my jacket. “Still here. Fully functional.”
My dick twitched at the way she saidfully functional, the words slipping right under my skin like they belonged there. Every inch of me went too aware—of the damp chill seeping into my jeans, of the weight of the prosthetic anchored in the snow, of the warm, soft woman in front of me who had absolutely no business touching me like this and yet felt exactly right doing it.
Her mouth twitched. “Even if you did ...exhale... in a cute little shrill.”
“You keep talking like that, Duchess,” I said, my voice coming out lower than I intended, “and hauling your ass back up this hill is going to count as PT.”
She laughed, breath ghosting across my face. “Oh no,” she gasped, mock dramatic. “Cardio and core strength? How will I ever survive?”
Her hand slid up a little as she pushed herself off the sled, palm dragging up my chest to my shoulder in a way that was definitely not necessary for balance. Snow clung to my jacket where her fingers had been. My skin burned underneath.
She got her feet under her and straightened, then leaned over me to flick at my hat, knocking loose a clump of snow that had landed there during my uncontrolled descent.
“Hold still,” she murmured.
Gloved fingers moved through my hair, brushing away the remaining flakes. The touch was quick, half practical, half an excuse, but it sent a sharp electric line straight down my spine. Her face was inches from mine—eyes intent, lips parted, cheeks flushed with cold and something that was no longer just victory.
I didn’t lean away.
Couldn’t.
My gaze dropped to her mouth, helpless. Pink and a little chapped from the wind, curved in a grin she was trying to tame and failing miserably. She smelled like cold air and sugar from breakfast, like my kitchen and my house and something that had started to feel dangerously close to home.
“Snow,” she said, flicking one last bit off my shoulder. “You were starting to look like a lawn ornament.”
“Rude,” I muttered, but the word came out rough, the edge dulled by the way her hand lingered that extra heartbeat before dropping back to her side.
