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“That’s because we enjoy having all ten fingers and toes,” I tell him, pausing beside one of the snow-heaped benches.
“You still got all your fingers and toes, darling.” He grins, eyeing me up and down as though he’s Superman with X-ray vision seeing right through my clothes.
Louis Lane, eat your heart out.
This man has all the tenacity and compassion of a superhero, and the charm and sex appeal of an undercover spy. I’m starting to think that maybe banking is nothing more than an alias, and any moment now we’re going to be pulled from this winter wonderland into some wild chase. As adventurous as it all sounds, I’d like to keep this—the here and now, in the snow I’m not so keen on.
“You don’t know about my toes.” Sneakily, I scoop up some snow and press it to the side of his neck.
In the bright afternoon light, his hazel eyes appear greener than I’ve ever seen them, giving him an air of mischief that warns me he’s going to make me regret doing that.
“Oh, but I do, Ms Morgan.” He comes even closer, the toes of his boots touching mine. “I know you have pretty feet, as you pointed out last night.”
“I could’ve been a foot model in another life.” If the idea didn’t gross me out so much.
Nobody likes feet. They’re like the pigeons and the rats of anatomy. Right?
“And if I had a foot fetish, you might just be the woman of my dreams,” he retorts with a grin. Leif pulls his cap down low over his face, as though he knows I can see the tomfoolery written all over it.
“Sounds like a lucky escape for m—” My remark is plugged by the mouthful of snow Leif wallops to my face.
My shocked senses go haywire, latching onto the next best thing to distract them from the icy blast: his aftershave. The spicy hit warms my tastebuds and sense of smell, while the citrus tang has my cold shivers morphing into electric sparks that send a shudder through me.
“You were saying?” Leif chuckles as the snow plops off my glasses to give me a streaked view of his cocked brow and smirk.
Gird your loins, McAllister!
I scowl at him, even though my insides are a traitorous mess of conflicting thoughts. The way his puckered lips roll between his teeth reminds me of his delicious kiss, and in spite of the cold shock from moments ago, I’m coming over all clammy at the memory of it.
“What was that?” Leif leans in closer, tempting lips ghosting mine along with the shiver-inducing heat of his breath.
Son of a—dammit. I can’t even insult him where it hurts because his mum is really nice. I feel like we built more of a rapport during one lunch than I did with my ex’s mother who I had dinner with once a month for almost six years.
God, I hate this man.
I really fucking hate his arrogant grin and the way it lights up his eyes as if fireworks are going off inside him when he riles me up. I can’t stand the way that same cocksure grin does things to me that has me incapable of telling him to bugger off. Most of all, it irks me how easily that one stupid expression can make me forget every shitty thing that’s happened in the last twelve months. Because nothing in the last year has given me the ability to breathe again the way Leif has in the last twenty-four hours.
“I’m sorry, Ms Morgan. Did the cat get your tongue?” Leif goads, his nose nudging mine. Large hands grab my hips over my coat, and just as he’s about to serenade me with another of his smart-arse remarks, I slip my hands beneath his puffer jacket, rounding the hem of his woollen jumper to the back of his jeans, where I shove my icy mitts under his T-shirt.
The satisfaction is instant as his whole body stretches taut, pulling impossibly taller. That smirk of his clenches with a sharp hiss that glints dangerously in his darkening eyes.
Oh shit.
My gratification crumbles when his hands tighten on my hips, and he yanks me flush against him. Hoisting me onto my tiptoes, his unshaven jaw scratches over my face until his lips meet my ear. Cold. Hard. Pressed tight.
With every muscle tensing breath, his chest pushes firmly into mine.
“You started it,” I say, my words dry and garbled as I smooth my hands to his hips, my palms splaying over the defined V disappearing into the top of his jeans.
My heart is going to leap out of my chest any second now, yet he remains stock-still, holding me tighter, his fingers clawing deeper and deeper with a bruising force that has my pores coming to life. Because in spite of the big bad wolf demeanour sharpening the chiselled lines of his face and muddying his mossy stare, I feel safe.
And that only makes me curious to see how far I can push him before he snaps.
“Not so smug now, are we?”
Leif still says nothing. He makes no move. Maybe I’m reading him all wrong. What if he’s actually pissed off?
Attempting to rock back on my heels, I pull my weight back, trying to get a look at his face. I can read him better that way… I think?
