Page 7 of Snow Harm, No Foul

“Ivy?”

“Mr. Shaw?”

Our words overlap. She clears her throat and tips her chin back, blinking away the pain I saw in her stare.

“Niko,” I grunt, correcting her.

“I didn’t know you owned this place, Mr. Shaw.”

It’s less surprising than her sharp tongue.

With a glance around the bar, I signal for Matty to distract the gawkers at the bar and focus back on Ivy.

“We can talk somewhere more private. Follow me.”

She hesitates. With a glance at the gift bag on the table, she freezes in place, only moving enough to chew on her bottom lip. I wait for her to work through whatever it is she’s contemplating with my mouth shut.

Finally, she swipes the bag and purse from the bar, along with her coat, and strides to where I’m waiting. I feel like a fucking giant beside her, the same way I did when I met her, as she comes to stand beside me, the top of her head reaching my shoulder.

I palm my thighs and lead us through the swinging back door to the dim hallway. The kitchen is to the left and the bathrooms to the right, but I focus on the office door at the end of the hall. It’s locked, so I jam the key in the doorknob and push inside.

The window beside my desk lets in natural light, but it’s frosted up enough you can only make out the white cast of snow beyond it.

She reaches for the back of a chair at the small table beneath the window, but I snap my arm out and do it for her. I feel the weight of her narrowed eyes but don’t stop.

Leaving the door open a crack, I take the chair across from her, my weight making it creak.

“I can pull out my own chair,” she says before sitting.

Her things fall to the table, and my interest piques when she pulls the Christmas bag close to her, as if shielding it from me.

“I’m sure you can. Doesn’t mean I won’t do it for you.”

She chuffs. “You should have taught your son how to do that.”

I don’t back down from the blow. It hits me right in the chest.

“Yeah, suppose you’re right.”

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she reveals, staring everywhere but at me.

The crowded, messy desk, my single bed that I use when I can’t be bothered to make it back home after work, and the empty glass on the table beside it with a thin layer of bourbon in the bottom.

For some reason, it pisses me off not having her attention. It’s impossible not to give her mine.

The gloss on her lips shines beneath the natural light, and she rubs them together before peeling them apart with a soft smacking sound.

My chest constricts, and I sit a bit straighter, pressing back against the chair.

“Disappointed?”

“No. Surprised. Were you expecting me?”

“I only know one Ivy Bell.”

Her eyebrows jump in understanding before she finally looks at me. The way my heart reacts to such a simple look is nothing but fucking trouble. I’ve been ignoring the way her closeness makes me feel since the first time I met her. The same day my son did.

Like someone’s held an electric paddle to my chest and groin and keeps triggering the shocks, I spark and burn beneath my skin.

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