Her smirk preceded another perfect pitch, and down he went.
Fuuuuuuck. That water…Jesus. How had Rose survived an hour of this?
But she was still waiting, still watching, still smiling when he resurfaced with a shudder, and nothing, nothing in his recent past had felt so horrible but so good.
He’d splash into freezing water for that.
Ruin a perfectly good silk tie for that.
Above all, continue believing—in himself and what he could offer her—for that.
For her.
Only, only for her.
Eight
Rose frownedat her reflection in the window. Then once more, at the sight of her Audi parked snugly beside Martin’s Subaru in the darkness beyond the plate glass.
Somehow, she seemed to have waited for his shift in the dunk tank to finish and given him clean towels and sweats she’d scrounged from the boys’ locker room. Somehow, she seemed to have accompanied him to a coffee shop after the festival.
Somehow, she seemed to have forgotten the importance of a safe distance from him. From everyone except her students, her former in-laws, and a few trusted friends from college.
Because somehow, there she sat, her hair still damp and tucked behind her ears, no makeup on. Wearing a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, also appropriated from the boys’ locker room lost and found box, because he’d stared at her original choice of clothing—suitably chic, suitably black, maybe not so suitably lightweight—with such horrified dismay and so many inquiries about possible hypothermia.
Her spike heels added a little something extra to the outfit, she imagined.
She cradled her mug of coffee and blew on its steaming surface. Across from her, Martin did the same, his blue eyes intent on her bare face.
Yes, something had clearly misfired in her brain.
But the man was a terrible liar. Just awful. There was absolutely no way in hell he’d ever intended to staff the dunk tank until he’d seen her plunge into the icy water. He’d come to the booth with no towel. No bathing trunks or wetsuit. No extra changes of clothing. No excuses to offer when Keisha found him in the tank and loudly wondered what in the world he was doing.
No, he’d clearly intended to watch the festivities and consume mango salsa-topped latkes—very tasty—and go home just as bone-dry as when he’d arrived.
One look at her goosebumps, and he’d taken off his shoes and prepared for submersion.
And the way he’d dabbed at her face with that towel, his brow furrowed in concentration, his touch as light and soft and warm as a cashmere throw…
No. She wouldn’t think it again. Wouldn’t feel it again.
He didn’t make her feel safe.
Not in the slightest.
But she supposed maybe they could be friends. Of a sort. With strict boundaries to protect her from any undesired emotional consequences.
And friends had coffee together, right? No big deal. No panic necessary.
“Black, huh?”
She blinked, abruptly aware that she’d been so busy thinking about Martin Krause that she’d paid no attention to the actual, physical man two feet away. “Uh, what?”
His fingertip nudged her mug. “You take your coffee black. I should have known.”
“Black and bitter.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Like my heart.”
He raised a skeptical brow. “Right. Because people with black and bitter hearts often staff dunk tanks to fundraise for their schools and provide vendetta-based amusement for students.”
