Page 10 of Defensive Desire

Emma tilts her head, studying me. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you string together this many sentences before. You're usually more of a grunt-and-nod kind of guy."

"I talk when it matters," I say quietly.

"And this matters?" she asks, something vulnerable flashing in her eyes.

I think about giving her my usual non-answer, but the twinkle in her eyes makes me want to try harder. To be better.

"Yeah. It does."

A small, genuine smile spreads across her face, and it hits me like a check into the boards.

I've seen plenty of her professional smiles. Like the ones she gives customers, the ones she pastes on when her mother visits the shop.

But this one's different. Like it's real and just for me.

Emma turns back to the espresso machine, cheeks still flushed. "So, what exactly does this partnership entail? Do we need to—shit!"

She yanks her hand back from the steamer wand, face twisted in pain.

I'm around the counter before she can blink, taking her wrist gently and guiding her to the sink. I turn on the cold water and hold her hand under the stream, my fingers curved protectively around hers.

"Keep it under for at least a minute," I instruct. "You got first aid? Burn cream?"

She nods, seemingly unable to speak as she stares at our hands.

Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers as I hold her hand under the cold water.

Standing this close, I can smell the vanilla on her skin, feel the heat radiating from her body. When she shifts slightly, her back brushes against my chest, and I have to bite back a groan.

She has to feel how hard my heart is pounding right now.

"Yeah. First aid kit is under the register," she manages.

I keep hold of her hand while reaching with my free arm to grab the kit. Our bodies are close now, too close for casual acquaintances, not close enough for... whatever the hell this tension between us is.

"Thanks," she whispers, her eyes meeting mine.

I grunt and carefully apply the burn cream, my large fingers gentle against her smaller hand.

The contrast reminds me of my first major injury. A broken hand from a fight defending my linemate. The team doctor hadhands like mine, oversized but careful. He told me I had good hands for an enforcer. Too good to waste on throwing punches.

"You should be more careful," I mutter, securing a small bandage over the spot. "The burn isn't serious. Only a small mark that'll fade by morning with this cream."

"Says the guy who gets hit by pucks for a living," she retorts, finding her voice again.

"Different."

"How is that different?"

"I get paid to take hits. You don't."

She studies me for a moment. "That scar of yours… the one from the stick fight… it was from protecting someone, wasn't it?"

My hand automatically moves to touch it, surprised she remembered that detail I told her weeks ago.

"Yeah. Second year with the Icehawks. Guy from Chicago went after our rookie."

I don't mention that I'd nearly lost my eye, spent a night in the hospital, and was back on the ice two days later with seventeen stitches.

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