Page 13 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

My hand is still on his.

I drop it guiltily, confused as to why the mere touch of his hand has made my stomach curl into a ball of buzzing nerves. “Well, I could get better at dating if I had an equally kind, wonderful person to practice with. Someone heroic,” I hint.

Rocklands nods gravely. “I can introduce you to—”

“I meant you!” I burst out.

“Oh. Me? Kind?”

“You saved my cat.”

“I’m a fireman.”

“Doesn’t matter. That makes you wonderful to me.”

His lips twitch. A half smile takes shape, and it sends a harpoon right through my heart. No arrows. No half-measures here. The big guy throws big ammunition without even trying.

“Let’s bowl, Miss Flores.”

“Thank you, Lt. Rockland, I’d love to. And I’m just Andrea, unless you’re my student.”

“You can call me Gordon.”

“That’s a very masculine name.” Oh, why? Why did I say that? I’m back to wondering how come my mouth has stopped communicating with my brain.

“It means ‘Great Fortress.’ I like it. It is one thing my mother did that I like.”

“Oh. Mommy issues?” Shit again! That sounds so messed up, so condescending. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s also none of my business if you and your parents are besties or hate each other’s guts. I love my parents, but my mother definitely stresses me out.”

“I remember that. She wouldn’t let you complain. I didn’t like that.” Gordon frowns.

He’s even sexy when he frowns.

Oh, sexy now? Handsome was one thing, but we’ve upgraded?

I need to spend an hour alone with something smutty and a bottle of wine. I’m having “cruise ship fling denial syndrome,” a totally made-up thing.

Gordon opens the door for me, and I’m surprised it doesn’t just yank off the hinges. He strolls in, ushering me ahead of him as though he has to protect me from the world, his head swiveling. He’s probably looking for an open lane, but it looks like he’s checking for threats.

It’s kind of sweet.

“We’re not besties. They don’t stress me out. We’re just... Apart.”

“That must be lonely.”

A hesitation. “It is.”

“I get that,” I say softly.

He leads me to the shoe rental section, and it occurs to me that there’s no way they’ll have something his size.

“Nineteen, please. Wide.”

Fuck nuggets, I didn’t know shoes went up that high in sizes.

“Here you go,” the girl in a striped shirt behind the counter beams at us and passes the shoes over without comment. “For you?” she asks me.

“Size six. Regular?” Do I have to say regular? He said wide. How come a tiny town has so many shoes and so many sizes? I find my eyes glazing over at the aisle of shoes that stretches back until I’m worried about the horizon line effect.