Her pulse beat at the base of her throat—barely visible, but there, and she looked at him as if she saw something unexpected. That should have made him step back.
Instead, it made him want to step closer.
Finally, her shoulders eased. She took the jacket—not surrendering but making a tactical decision.
Smart.
Her fingers brushed his—ice-cold. The brief contact shot through him like static as the faint citrus of her perfume teased his nose.
The jacket swallowed her instantly, sleeves too long, shoulders sloping. For a split second she reminded him of every person he’d ever pulled from the water—small, shaken, needing shelter.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice rusty.
He turned on his heel. He didn’t need her thanks. Protecting people—even the ones who didn’t belong out here—was what he did, who he was.
George cleared his throat. “Well,” he clapped his gloved hands together, a brittle smile cracking across his face. “This is going swimmingly. Shall we discuss the flight plan before we all freeze to death?”
Ivy linked her arm through her brother’s and turned toward the helicopter.
Freezing air stirred in her wake, carrying the scent of jet fuel.
At the door she glanced back once, her gaze catching Ryder’s.
For a heartbeat the noise of the hangar seemed to drop out—just her, framed in glare and rotor wash, chin lifted.
He told himself it meant nothing.
Except it didn’t feel like nothing.
It felt like the first crack of ice underfoot.
That breathless instant before everything gives way.
4
Ryder’s jackethung across Ivy’s shoulders like borrowed armor, still carrying his heat and the clean scent that tripped her pulse. She pulled it closer, swallowed by a garment made for someone twice her size.
The warmth seeped into her skin—not just physical heat, but something else. Care. When was the last time anyone had worried whether she was cold?
Never.
She was always the one checking on George, making sure the money was flowing into the estate to keep them solvent and the estate tenants in their homes, ensuring everyone else was taken care of.
This deal can’t fail.
The weight of it pressed against her chest. Families were counting on them. George meant well, but completing negotiations wasn’t his strength. They both knew she’d be carrying the real load when they sat down at that conference table.
“Ivy?” Ryder’s voice pulled her back. “Survival vest goes on over the jacket.”
His tone was professional, all traces of the man who’d wrapped her in his jacket gone. But his hands were steady as he adjusted the orange life vest over the leather, his fingers brushing her collar as he checked the fit. It was nothing. Just protocol. So why did her lungs forget how to work?
“Snug but not restrictive.” His voice was close to her ear. “Can you breathe okay?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He was so close she could see a faint scar along his jawline, feel the warmth radiating from his body. This was his world—the helicopter, the rescue protocols, the easy competence that marked him as someone who saved lives for a living.
Hypothermic risk. His words still stung. But he was right. She’d be no use to anyone on the flight if she was too cold to think straight.
The engines spooled up with a deafening whine that vibrated through the concrete beneath her feet. Rotor wash whipped hair across her face, and she tucked it behind her ears, grateful for the jacket’s protection against the sudden wind. Wyatt gestured for them to board.
