Page 88 of Ice King

The first three remained, a stance of how we’d forever react to each other.

But the last was nowhere to be seen, replaced with an icy chill that instantly wrapped tentacles around the whole of my heart.

“Ford,” she said with absolutely no emotion in her voice.

“Georgia.” I took a few steps closer, making certain she didn’t have a scalding pot of coffee ready to toss into my face. It appeared all appliances were off.

When her eyes cut to the floor again, I realized I was sloshing water everywhere. At least the sound my shoes made when walking across the floor brought a faint smile to her face. She was absolutely adorable with a high ponytail, a cute red tee shirt and khaki shorts, the apron somehow suiting her.

I’d prefer if she was wearing no clothes underneath, but beggars with bad attitudes didn’t have the right to be picky.

“You’re getting water all over my floor.” She moved to the end of the counter, promptly folding her arms across her chest. A red-blooded boy like me had some pretty filthy thoughts, but I rubbed water from my face as a distraction to myself.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any towels, would you?”

“I do.” Her retort was quick and she wasn’t making a move to go and get one for me. You bet I’d fucked up royally.

The woman made me nervous as hell, more so than anyone else. I rubbed my hands on my wet jeans while glancing around the quaint shop. As if doing so would offer some divine intervention with the perfect statement. Obviously, I was on God’s bad side since nothing came to mind.

“What do you want, Ford? I’m busy.”

She had every intention of playing hardball. And was loving it. “I thought a cup of coffee.” What? Coffee? What in the hell had that been?

“As I said, we’re closed. I think there’s a McDonald’s down the street. That’s more your style.”

Was she even tapping her foot on the floor? I’d be damned if she wasn’t. Oh, she was going to make me earn this, but I wasn’t a groveler. Not a chance in hell. “Oh, okay. Fine.”

Funny how I stood right where I was, refusing to back down in the game we were playing.

She lifted both eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to stamp your foot?”

“What? Why?”

“Like all little boys who don’t get what they want. Oh, wait. I forgot. Men like you punch walls when you can’t get your way. How’s your hand? My guess is that you came close to breaking your fifth metacarpal. Not that you’ll admit it of course.”

When I did nothing but glare and seethe since I didn’t have a snappy comeback, she offered an award-winning smile. I could hear the imaginary referee in the corner giving her the point.

“Maybe you know the injury as the boxer’s fracture, but I guess according to you, I wouldn’t know just like I had no clue your ribs were broken. Because I’m just a massage therapist. Right?”

Oh, fuck me. This was not going well. I sloshed closer and she just pinged me with a look that could easily drive me six feet under. “I never said that.”

“Hmmm. But you thought it. How many times?”

I licked beads of rain off my lips and looked away, fighting more emotions than I’d experienced in twelve years. Twelve. Years. “I’m sorry.”

I could feel the clock ticking.

“You’re sorry.”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

Had amusement formed in her eyes? I think so. “For treating you so badly.”

She had the chutzpa to place her hand by her ear. “What did you say?”

Half laughing, I issued a deep growl and the joy of me struggling resonated with her in the most positive way. Once again, I had to wipe my hands on my jeans, but nothing was going to make me feel any better. “I said I’m sorry about treating you so badly. I was a shithead.”