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Not an accountant's hand.Or a lawyer, or whatever else he tried to sell me.
I took the offer, though my balance was fine. My fingers closed around his rougher one, sensitive to the small jolts of pleasure and warmth at the contact.
The short gangplank shifted beneath me and I knew I made a misstep. For the first time in my life because that damned boat never gave me grief, and I got on it twice a day, every freaking day. Somehow my foot went over the side of the sturdy plank, and I started to fall.
Hard hands caught me before I dropped so much as an inch. Ford’s mouth moved, but nothing made it through to me as I blinked up, and up at him.
Sweet baby Jesus, he’s tall.
His abs were a wall of muscle that supported us both, his hand huge where it wound around my waist. Breath left me as he pulled me into his body and onto the boat in one step together.
Twisting my fingers into his shirt, I tried to suck in air, but his proximity snuffed out the oxygen in my lungs. I opted to concentrate on his face, making the mistake of holding his gaze. Heat smouldered there, contrasting sharply to the cheeky, killer smile on his arched lips.
“You with me, Nisha?” He hooked his arm around my waist, refusing to let me go as I tried to back pedal. “I need to know you’re okay before I let you down.”
I blinked at where my hands bunched at his shirt, and released him immediately, trying to take the promised step back.
The steel band at my back prevented any movement.
"Ford?" I tried again, heat rising in my cheeks.
He stared down at me a moment longer, rubbing circles over my lower back with firm fingers. "She's fine," he talked over my head. One hand slid down to squeeze my hip, the small boat rocking to draw us closer.
My eyes popped open in full as I realised the heat in his eyes wasn’t limited to only one body part. I could feel it. Him, rather. I could feel him pressed against my stomach.
The receptionist hadn't lied.
Ford Millham’s manflesh was indeed swoonworthy.
Enough to hang my Santa hat on.
I pushed away from him, and this time, he let me, giving me just enough space to find my seat near the ferryman and faced the front, pretending the supernova level glow in my cheeks was all about the chillfactor.
Not the manflesh that had the ability to melt polar ice caps seated several feet behind me.
“Good weather today, Miss Nisha,” Jansen called as he steered his boat-cum-ferry in the interest of bolstering his non-existent pension away from the peer. “Standard loop?”
“Make it longer,” I muttered, fixing my gaze on a building upriver.
My regular spiel sat on my tongue, but for the life of me I couldn't bring the words any further to Ford. Jansen hummed a mangled Christmas carol I didn’t bother to untangle while I ignored my passenger and tried to get my Christmas baubles together.
Sure, Ford pinned me. I was a whirlwind mess most of the time, but I managed a business, and paid my bills on time, even if I didn’t get to save much each week. Plus, there were a few structured people in my life–Jeremiah (the bullfrog) Superintendent I’d have Christmas lunch with–I made a hasty note on the back of my hand to pick up the ham I ordered for us plus cherries or he’d never forgive me when I ran us out of hot water on cold nights ever again.
And Jansen, my trusty ferryman. We’d never lost a passenger or a parcel between us. I counted that as a win. Denise, the other half of the tour pair we made, divvying up customers and booking out small events together.
And...Ford.
I cleared my throat, ready to point out Lady Liberty and the Christmas decorations that hugged NYC like an elf suit of its own, some so large they were visible from the water.
Anything to distract myself from the six foot four cowboy infatuation behind me.
Ford sat quietly a few rows back, the lone passenger on a private tour. I couldn’t face him for the first ten minutes, but when I managed to sneak a glance over my shoulder as the boat turned smoothly, he rested his arms across the seat backs either side of him, head tilted back, taking in the view and the fresh air.
Some of his dark mood from before dropped away, and I steeled myself enough to approach him.
“I’m sorry about before,” I murmured as I worked my way between the seats to perch at the edge of his row.
Ford turned his head, spotting where I sat, and crooked one finger on his outstretched arm. “Closer.”
