Page 30 of Double or Nothing
“I don’t have an issue with that,” I say. “As long as it doesn’t put a burden on the three of you to be my bodyguards.”
A hint of a smile pulls at Kit’s lips. “You’ll never be a burden to us.”
The phone vibrates again. “Natasha sent me an address. I need to be there in an hour. Can you accompany me?”
“Absolutely,” he affirms, his voice laced with determination.
An hour later, we’re on our way to the address Natasha gave me. We pull up to a dark, imposing structure and walk towards the entrance with its set of frosted double doors, glowing under the cool blue halo of LED lights.
Kit, the eternal gentleman, politely holds the door open for me. I step inside and am instantly assaulted by a wave of frigid air that takes my breath away.
“God, it’s glacial in here,” I mutter, already regretting my choice of a short-sleeved outfit and open-toed sandals. “What is this place?”
Glancing around the large room, I realize we’ve stepped into a bizarre, frozen paradise. The walls, ceiling, and even the furniture are all sculpted from glistening ice. The ambient lighting casts a cool hue, evoking a sense of stepping into an icy fantasy world.
“It’s obviously an ice bar,” Kit replies, sounding equally impressed. “I’ve heard of this place, but have never checked it out. You’ll freeze to death in here. Why don’t you text her and offer to talk with her in the car instead? You’re not dressed for an ice bar. Even I’m feeling the chill, and I’m usually impervious to the cold.” His muscular arms reach over to envelop me, forming a warm barrier against the chilly atmosphere. I press into his heat, my skin drinking in his comfort.
“This place is beautiful though,” I say, my breath unfurling in soft clouds of frost in the arctic air. “It’s impressive, that’s for damn sure.”
The empty seating area is furnished with sofas and chairs draped in what I can only hope is faux-fur. Crystal-clear ice tables topped with exquisite ice sculptures are strategically placed throughout the room, adding an extra touch of elegance.
The main bar is the magnificent centerpiece, constructed entirely of intricately carved ice. Behind the bar, frozen shelves are lined with an array of premium liquors that glint like amber and obsidian jewels under the cool lighting.
The solitary bartender, dressed in insulating layers of winter attire, looks up as we cross the threshold into his icy kingdom. With a curt nod, he beckons us over to the bar and gestures toward the frost-coated stools.
“Have a seat,” he says, his voice tinged with an unmistakable Eastern European accent. “She’ll be here shortly.”
I perch on an ice stool, a shiver sliding down my arms when the cold seeps through the thin fabric of my pants.
“Are you a friend of the person we’re meeting?” I ask him.
“I am.” His response is curt, and I take the hint he’s not interested in chit-chat about Natasha. She’s probably threatened to cut him, too.
Kit doesn’t take a seat on one of the frozen stools. Instead, he remains a pillar of solid warmth behind me, his arms looped around my shivering form, radiating heat that pushes back against the relentless chill.
The abrupt creak of a side door breaks the silence, and Natasha slinks across the room, a glimmering apparition in a golden, sleeveless dress that captures and reflects the light, along with matching strappy heels. With an effortless grace, she slides onto the vacant stool beside me.
Without awaiting a cue, the bartender retrieves a bottle of vodka, its surface frosted over, and pours two shots. He places a glass before Natasha and me, then reaches to pour a shot for Kit.
Kit holds up his hand to stop him. “No thank you,” he says politely.
Natasha raises her eyes at Kit in a silent question.
“I rarely drink,” he says.
She turns to me, a challenge dancing in her blue eyes. “I don’t trust men who won’t drink vodka with me,” she says.
“Well, I don’t drink and drive with precious cargo in the car with me,” Kit counters evenly, tightening his arms around me.
“An orange juice for him then,” Natasha announces with a sigh. The bartender wastes no time, his hands a blur as he prepares freshly squeezed orange juice for Kit, served in a tall glass. Kit accepts it graciously with a nod of thanks.
“Now, you go sit over there,” Natasha instructs Kit, her manicured finger pointing towards a larger frozen sofa nestled in the far corner. “No men allowed while we talk. Girls only.”
Kit frowns at her and holds his ground without budging.
“It’s okay,” I reassure him with a smile, rubbing his arm. “I’ll be fine. Go sit and enjoy your drink.”
He exhales, the audible sigh frosting in the bitter cold. His protective arms slowly drop from around me and he strides over to the sprawling, icy sofa. Lifting his frosty glass to take a sip, his gaze locks on me with unwavering vigilance.
