Page 18 of Ice Darling
He folds his arms over his chest, drawing my attention to the bulging muscles half-hidden under his sleeves.
Where I come from, men go to the gym for the aesthetics. But something tells me, Renthrow’s muscles came from pure, hard discipline.
Why am I staring at his muscles?
“I don’t suppose you’re the new nanny I was to interview today,” Renthrow accuses in a dark voice.
“I don’t suppose you’re the realtor I’m here to meet,” I fire back.
He takes his cap off, scrapes his big hands through his thick, dark hair, and then slaps the cap back on, somehow relaying his frustration to me without ever explicitly voicing it.
“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” I spit out, “but that would be a lie.”
“Well then…it’s a good thing lies are your speciality,” he drawls in that small-town cadence. His eyes slide over me like I’m poison.
My cheeks heat up. “Yesterday, I had a…situation.”
“A fake-boyfriend situation.”
“I picked the wrong guy to play the part. Obviously.”
His jaw tics as if he’s grinding his molars together. “At least you tried again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last night. You and Max?”
My eyebrows cinch together.
“Maxwas the right guy?” he asks, an edge to his voice.
Before I can figure out why he’s dragging Max into this, a toddler races out of the bathroom, buck naked.
“Anthony!” A frazzled mother shrieks, scrambling to collect her child.
I windmill backward to get out of the toddler’s way and lose my balance. It’s too late to correct course, and I end up sprawling into Viking Renthrow’s lap. The arms I’d been eyeing come around me, pulling me against his chest and steadying my balance.
“Sorry. Sorry,” the flustered mother says. She scoops her baby into her arms and takes the shrieking, miniature hurricane back into the family bathroom.
Renthrow looks me up and down. “Back for take two?”
Take two?
My glare hardens, and I wonder if it’s possible to despise someonethismuch. “Get your hands off me, and I’ll gladly get up.”
Renthrow abruptly lifts both arms.
I didn’t account for the fact that his hands were keeping me upright, and I flop backward like a turtle turned over on its shell.
While I’m teetering against gravity and trying to wiggle my way back to a sitting position again Renthrow peers over me.
His lips twitch. “Need some help there?”
“I donot.” I try to plant my feet on the ground, but he’s so tall, even while sitting, that my legs are dangling two inches off the floor, and I can’t steady myself that way.
Changing tactics, I grip the table and heft myself up. Unfortunately, my arms arenotwrapped in muscles like his are, and I have negative-five-percent core strength. The simple act of pulling myself up will require a mathematical equation that I need time to think through.
But Renthrow gets enough.
