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I lift my wrist between us, letting the red ribbon dangle like a trophy. “Looks like I win.”

His attention drops to it. Then he slowly shakes his head no.

My smile turns wicked. “Someone’s a sore loser.”

He steps toward me but this time I don’t run.

The Hunt is over.

The game is over.

At least, I think it is.

He stops directly in front of me, so close that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. His fingers rise touching the red ribbon that weighs so heavily against my wrist. The moment his cold fingers touch my heated skin an electric current flows up my veins making me gasp.

Then his hand slides beneath my wrist turning it over. Something is drawn on the inside of his forearm. Black ink—a symbol with three crooked lines crossing through a circle.

I’ve seen it before.

I stare at it. “Isn’t that the symbol on the cups?”

His hand stills then drops. The loss of his touch has me snapping my eyes up to him. “You work here?”

He nods.

“Knew it.” I point toward his mask. “Do you have a name under there?”

He taps the front of it.

“Reaper?”

Another nod.

“Creative.”

He steps closer.

I laugh and press my palm against his chest before he can come any closer. “Personal space, Reaper.”

He stops instantly but I don’t. My hand stays exactly where I put it, spread over the solid warmth of his chest.

Fuck.

I should move. There is absolutely no reason for me to still be touching this man. Except I can’t seem to stop myself.

His gaze drops to where I’m touching him before slowly lifting back to my face.

Neither of us moves.

The playful energy between us shifts into something heavier, tightening in the narrow space separating our bodies. My pulse refuses to settle. For one stupid second, I wonder what would happen if I slid my hand higher. If he’d let me. If he’d close the distance.

“Rhett.” The voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

The man beneath my hand goes rigid.

So do I.

My hand is still pressed against his chest when I glance past him toward the sound.