Page 75 of Ice Princess

“I guess you’re right,” mom mumbles, drawing away from the kitchen. “Anyway, who says he has to come to me? As his future mother-in-law, I’ll bring him and his teammates some snacks this week. It’ll be something that won’t break his diet, of course. Perhaps some homemade granola?”

Horror drains the blood from my face. That absolutelycannothappen.

First of all, Gunner Kinsey doesn’t deserve mom’s homemade granola.

Second of all, he wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.

“Mom, there’s actually something I have to tell you.” I squeeze my eyes shut and decide to rip the bandaid off, “Last night, Gunner and I?—”

The screen door screeches and mom’s voice rings out, “Gunner Kinsey, what a sight for sore eyes!”

“Mrs. Hart.” A deep voice rumbles.

I whirl around. Why does thatsoundlike Gunner?

“Oh, none of that. Call me Rachel.”

Footsteps thud on the floor and then a giant appears, filling the doorway with his muscular frame.

I gulp. Why does thatlooklike Gunner?

My mortal enemy is wearing a simple long-sleeved blue shirt, flannel and jeans. He fills the trailer and makes the entire space ten times too small.

The sight of him after our, well,my—because he didn’t say much—fight last night pinches harder than I expected it to. I look away to the table, enduring a twinge of embarrassment.

“My, oh my. Gunner Kinsey, how you’ve grown! I remember when you were knee-high and nowlookat you.”

I snort. Knee-high? Maybe Goliath’s knee.

Gunner isn’t just big physically. He’s got this way of making other people feel small simply by standing next to him. It’s his aura—mysterious and guarded. No, not just guarded. He’s a secret vault buried under an alien research base. Everything about him is locked off, held behind a thousand door knobs and rattling chains.

“Have a seat. Let me get you some lemonade,” mom chirps.

Gunner folds himself into mom’s sofa, turning the average-sized loveseat into a chair fit for an elementary kid. His eyes lock on my face.

Trying to look busy, I grab the pan I’d set on the stove and then hiss in pain. The pan clatters back on the open flame. I’d forgotten that I turned the stove on.

“Ah!” I fling my hand up and down.

“Sweetie, are you alright?” Mom yells.

She hurries toward me, but a blur streaks past her. Gunner’s long, loping strides eat away the distance. He’s at my side in a flash. Grabbing my hand, he glares at the angry, red stain on my skin as if it did him a personal grievance.

“I-it’s okay. I let the pan go quickly enough. It doesn’t hurt that much.” I try to tug my hand away, but he holds firm and drags me to the sink.

“I’ll get an ice compress,” mom says. She opens the freezer. “Oh, dear. It seems we’re out of ice. I’ll run to the store real quick.”

The screen door shrieks open and then slams shut.

I stare at the side of Gunner’s face as he concentrates on my hand. There are dark circles under his eyes and his face looks a little pale. I wonder if he’d gotten lightheaded when he jumped out of the couch to help me.

Gunner’s piercing blue gaze meets mine. My heart skips a beat, and I hate myself for it.

I’m angry with him.

Aren’t I angry with him?

What am I angry with him about again?

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