“Twice in one day,” he says, and there's warmth in his expression now, the tension from a moment ago melting away. “That takes a special kind of talent.”
He's close enough now that I catch the scent of his woodsy cologne mixed with cinnamon from the mulled wine, and it's making me slightly dizzy. Or maybe that's just him.
I reach up to brush a snowflake from his shoulder, my fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long. Long enough to feel the solid muscle beneath his coat, to remember what it felt like without any barriers between us. “I prefer to think of it as keeping you on your toes.”
“Is that what we're calling it?” His thumb brushes against my back, a slow, deliberate stroke that makes heat pool low in my belly.
I grin up at him. “So you're saying you wish you hadn't saved me? Think of all the witty banter and mulled wine you'd have missed out on.”
“Oh, the horror,” he deadpans, but his smile reaches his eyes, making them shine. His hand is still warm against my back, and neither of us makes any move to step apart as we meander through the market. “Though for the record, I stand by what I said in that note.”
“Duly noted,” I say lightly, even though something in my chest squeezes. “But I'm still collecting data, Hotshot. And so far, the evidence is stacking up against your assumptions.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is that right?”
“Very much so.” I bump my shoulder against his. “You can protest all you want, but actions speak louder than words.”
Something vulnerable flickers across his features. “You're trouble, you know that?”
“The best kind, though, I promise,” I tease with a bright smile.
We stop at a stall selling handmade wooden toys. The vendor has arranged them in a winter scene—miniature sleighs, tiny carved animals, and right in the centre, a beautiful rocking horse. It's intricate, clearly handcrafted, with a flowing mane and tail that someone spent hours carving.
Cole picks it up without hesitation, turning it over in his hands with an expression I can't quite read. His fingers trace the carved mane with unexpected gentleness.
“Hollie would love this,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
I watch him as he examines it—the way his thumb traces over the carved mane, how he carefully checks the craftsmanship, and tests the rockers to make sure they're smooth. There'ssomething heart-wrenching about watching this gruff, guarded man turn soft at the thought of his daughter's joy.
“You should get it,” I encourage him.
He looks at me as though he doesn’t know how to react to another person’s input when it comes to his daughter, and suddenly I feel I may have overstepped.
“You said Hollie's really loving Christmas this year,” I add gently. “A beautiful gift like this might make it one to remember.”
His expression softens, and he turns back to the vendor with a decisive nod. “We'll take it.”
We.
The word wraps around my heart and squeezes. He said we, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like I'm part of this moment, part of this decision for his daughter.
Stop it, Aurora!
I repeat the mantra in my head as I chide myself, watching Cole fish out his wallet.
I'm here to figure out what I want from life, just like I promised Mom I would. To have the adventure of a lifetime in the city that presents the only relationship that could possibly feed my soul.
Not to get swept up in thoughts I have no business having about a man who’s as emotionally available as the carved rocking horse in his hands. A man with moss-green eyes and a daughter who needs him and walls he's only just starting to let down.
A man who just saidweas though I belong here.
No. Stop it!
Focus, idiot. Get. A. Grip!
The vendor wraps the rocking horse carefully while Cole pays, and I force myself to look away, to focus on literallyanything else. The garlands hanging from the stall. The other customers browsing. The way the snow is falling heavier now.
Anything but the way my heart is doing somersaults over a man I met yesterday.
