"I don't think we need it. But it's nice to be appreciated."
"I appreciate me," I said. "You appreciate you. Shouldn't that be enough?"
Stacia barked a laugh. "Freya, we are at a wedding right now. We can't solve self-doubt in one evening."
"You're right, queen."
She stared at me, looking very pleased with herself. "I think I'm rubbing off on you."
"I think"—I linked my arm with hers—"that we should go dance."
"We will, Freya, but later. Right now, I have to go check on the cake and make sure no one has gotten into the sparklers."
Glancing at something behind me, her smile turned mischievous.
"And I think there's someone else who's been waiting to dance with you."
I turned around and locked gazes with Tolliver, standing on the other side of the dance floor.
"Go get him, sis," she said before patting my shoulder and disappearing into the crowd.
I raised a brow.
And waited.
Getting the message, Tolliver shook his head and smiled—then he started to walk toward me.
Glided might've been a better word.
He moved so smoothly, stared at me so intently, I couldn't look away.
At some point, Tolliver had rolled up his shirt sleeves. The sun was only starting to set, and the day had been a hot one. I couldn't blame him for ditching the black suit jacket—though it had looked amazing on him. He'd left the top two buttons open on his white collared shirt. Again, not mad about that. At all. But the sight of those toned forearms, the way he tucked hishands nonchalantly into his pockets, and how that accentuated the muscles living there.
Tolliver had no idea what he was doing.
Forearms were a body part beloved by historical romance readers everywhere.
And his were stunning.
He stopped by my side and stared down at me.
"What were you just thinking?" he asked.
"Nothing," I hedged.
"Freya, I know something was running around in that head of yours. Your face is still pink."
As he caressed my cheek, I swatted his hand away.
"I thought we agreed to be honest with each other from now on."
Huffing out a breath, I said, "Fine. You have nice forearms."
"What?" He laughed.
"Your forearms," I repeated, feeling even more heat rush to my cheeks. "They're very strong, defined, and stunning—Tolliver! I'm not going to be honest if all you're going to do is laugh at me."
The hockey player shook his head, getting himself back under control.
