Chapter 7
SEVEN
QUINN
August’s text said to bring warm clothes, which is laughable. Like I’d ever need them. I could parade around Alaska in the middle of winter in a bikini and still be toasty as a loaf of bread fresh from the oven.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
I pull into the parking lot of the address he sent me, and the reason for his instructions becomes clear. There’s a warehouse-sized building looming before me, and the afternoon sun illuminates the business name.
Ice Zone.
An ice-skating rink.
Shit.
Ice cream and now ice skating? What is this guy, the abominable snowman?
I snort to myself. Yeah, right. That’s as likely as unicorns or Ice Elementals.
As I park, I can’t help the anxiety creeping through my veins.
Maybe, if I were just meeting up with my sisters or some friends, ice skating wouldn’t be a huge deal.
But I’m supposed to walk into that place beside a drop-dead hunk of a man and not turn the entire rink into a puddle?
My confidence in my self-control is spotty on the best of days.
You didn’t melt his ice cream, I remind myself.
That’s a halfway decent argument. When his finger trailed over my skin and then he licked the cream? I about perspired. In that moment, I was in need of a fainting couch, on the verge of a sexy-man-induced collapse.
But other than the heat pulsing quicker through my veins, there was no detrimental reaction. I kept everything contained.
So, why can’t I do that today?
This entire get-together is basically one big experiment. Who’s to say that even if I don’t get too heated up that I won’t find another way to screw up? My fire is worrisome, but at least it’s a demon I know well. My ability to date a person is a whole other gauntlet I’ve never had to face before.
Maybe the stress of that will keep me from descending into a lust inferno.
The blacktop currently radiates more heat than I do, the air above the surface shimmering in miniature mirages.
August lounges against the front of the building, an oasis in the middle of a desert.
His arms sit crossed over his chest, biceps bulging against the blue fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.
How in all the heavens is he not sweating through that thing?
If I were human, I’d be a sloppy mess in this heat.
But he stands, cool as a marble statue, and my doubts about my control return.
If the ice starts getting watery, I can pull out an excuse to leave early. Maybe pretend I twisted an ankle or that Harley called with an emergency.
No, I know! I’ll tell him my period showed up and I’m having massive cramps.
Guys never question menstrual issues. Not when the uterus is such a mysterious entity to them.
Tucking that perfect excuse in my back pocket, I skip up to him with more confidence. My giddiness fades slightly when I notice the corner of his beautiful, strong mouth dipping down as his sapphire eyes track over my body.
“I told you to dress warm.”
Is that what’s got him concerned?
“I wore pants, and I brought a jacket.” I hold out the windbreaker for his inspection.
“That’s not going to be enough.” August shakes his head, and then he has the audacity to bite his super-fuckingly gorgeous, plump bottom lip.
That is all I need to get the furnace in my chest producing enough heat to last me for a decade.
Of course, I can’t tell him that.
“I live in Phoenix. This is my winter gear. But don’t worry.” I reach out to pat his broad shoulder. “Like I told you, I run hot.”
August still appears bothered, but he bends over to grab a duffel bag I just noticed. Unzipping it, he pulls out a felt scarf, a knit hat, a set of thick mittens, and one huge sweatshirt that reads University of Alaska Anchorage.
Maybe this guy is the abominable snowman.
Instead of handing the items to me, August takes the liberty of dressing me himself.
His fingers, surprisingly cool, brush my chin as he wraps the scarf around my neck.
I snort as he tugs the hat down far enough to cover my ears.
Trying to be helpful, I drop my jacket on the ground and lift my arms in the air so he can easily slip the hoodie on.
The minute the fabric passes over my head, my mind stutters in disbelief.
I breathe in deeper, not trusting my first instinct. But there it is again.
Once ensconced in the soft sweatshirt, I don’t let him shove the mittens on my hands. I’m too busy grabbing the gray cotton and pressing it to my nose.
“What are you doing?” August’s befuddled look has me considering the full implications of what I’m smelling.
I let go of the hoodie and step into his space so I can pinch the front of his shirt and hold it to my nose for inspection.
“Quinn—”
“Waffle cones.” My voice comes out in a hodgepodge of wonder and agony.
“You smell like waffle cones.” I never thought the scent of sweet dough would make me horny, but I’ve never met a muscular ice cream god who smells like desserts.
I’m tempted to glare around us, sure some other woman is going to shove me out of the way so that she can simultaneously climb and devour him.
“Sorry. It never completely washes out.” Some golden hair flops over August’s thick brows as he grimaces down at me.
I let go of his shirt to clutch his face in my hands. “Why would you try to wash it out? I’m one step away from consuming you right now.”
His face flushes under my palms, and I suddenly realize how hot my skin has gotten. I stumble back, grabbing for the mittens, determined to cover my potentially incendiary skin.
Remember, he’s a human. Fragile. Flammable.
If I want everyone to survive this date, I need to smother the inferno in my panties.
Just to be safe, I scope out the location of the fire extinguishers as August guides me into the building.