Page 48 of The Last Inch Of Ice
“There,” Rykov says, his voice a low rumble that Kai can feel vibrating through his shoulder. “That turnoff coming up. Should be it according to the last cached map.”
“How far?” Burke asks.
“Two miles, maybe less.”
As they lean back into their seats, disaster strikes in the form of a coat button.
Rykov’s thick wool sleeve—he’s wearing some kind of utilitarian military-style jacket that probably costs forty dollars and will last twenty years—catches on one of the oversized decorative buttons of Kai’s Moncler.
It’s the kind of stupid, insignificant thing that happens a thousand times in everyday life and means nothing.
Except this time it tethers them together in a cramped truck cab where personal space is already a laughable fiction.
Kai’s breath catches in his throat. He tries to pull his coat away—a casual, natural movement—but the fabric is snagged tight on the button’s stem. The more he pulls, the more tangled it becomes.
“Just—hold still,” Kai mutters, fumbling with the button. His fingers are suddenly clumsy, refusing to cooperate with his brain’s increasingly frantic commands.
Rykov, for his part, just sits there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t help. A statue carved from granite and fury, his arm now resting unavoidably against Kai’s chest, warm even through multiple layers of expensive fabric.
Kai’s heart starts pounding a frantic, stupid rhythm against his ribs. He’s acutely aware of how close they are. Of the scent of Rykov— a sweat from carrying the gear bags and something else underneath. Something uniquely him that Kai’s traitorous brain has apparently memorized like it’s evolutionary important information.
He has to get free. He can’t be this close.
He angles his body slightly, trying to get better leverage on the button without pressing even closer to Rykov. His thumb finally finds the right angle and the wool comes free with a soft sound of fabric on fabric.
Kai jerks back immediately, putting a precious inch of space between them. He makes the catastrophic mistake of looking up.
Rykov is staring at him.
Not with anger. Not with annoyance. Not with any of the expressions Kai has cataloged over months of hostile proximity.
Just an intense, focused stare, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light of the truck cab.
For a long second, the world shrinks to the space between them. The truck, the snow, the other players, Dale’s commentary about road conditions—it all fades into meaningless background noise.
Kai breaks the contact first, turning sharply to face forward.
As he moves, Rykov’s body jerks—a subtle, aborted movement.
His hand lifts slightly from where it was resting on his thigh, muscles tensing as if his body prepared to reach out before his brain vetoed the command.
It’s over in a flash, but Kai sees it. Catalogs it. Adds it to the growing collection of moments that don’t mean anything except they clearly mean a lot.
He busies himself with Bonifazio’s carrier, using the cat as a shield and distraction. “How are we doing in there, Your Majesty?” he murmurs, his voice not quite steady. “Is your little crown still on straight?”
He peeks through the mesh. Bonifazio glares at him with the concentrated hatred only a cat forcibly removed from its comfortable apartment can muster.
“I know, buddy. This is beneath both our dignities.”
Kai risks a glance at the others. Sam is looking out the window, watching the snow accumulate. Chase is on his phone, probably playing Candy Crush. Burke is talking to Dale about the history of snow removal in Ontario.
No one saw. No one noticed.
But they’re walking on a knife’s edge now. He and Rykov. A single misstep, a single knowing glance from someone with a working brain cell, and the fall would be brutal.
Kai knows exactly how that story ends.
If it came out—if this thing between him and Rykov became public knowledge—it wouldn’t just be another scandal in the long, storied history ofWhy Kaisyn Callahan Is A Problem.
