Page 19 of Ice Queen

Turning, I see two massive men walking down the hall. One with long, blonde hair that hangs to his shoulders and the other with light brown hair, pushed back as if he’d been running his hands through it all day.

“Hey, Lettie Girl,” the blonde one says as he leans down and kisses Scarlett hard enough to make her giggle, while their son, well, I’m assuming, pulls on his dad’s hair. “Little dude, I missed you,” he coos, bending to kiss the baby on the head.

The other man has his arm slung around Hannah’s shoulder, and her head rests against it as she looks up at him like he hung the moon. I feel my throat tighten as I watch them interact with one another. It’s beautiful, intimate, and I feel like an intruder. So I quickly turn and shuffle behind the table.

“Guys, this is Kaitlyn. She owns Tattered Pages,” Abby says, her last word comes out as a squeak because someone walks up behind her and slides his arms around her waist.

“Tate,” she hisses, rolling her eyes before they widen slightly, and she turns in his hold. “Wait, you’re home!”

“Surprise.” His lazy smile is lethal. It’s clear he only has eyes for her. The six of them, something straight out of one of the books on my table.

“This is my husband, Tate,” she says, “He plays for the Strikers.”

When I stare wordlessly, she adds. “The soccer team.”

“Ah.” Maria did tell me that, but I know not a damn thing about soccer. Not that I really know anything about hockey either, I guess.

“Hi,” he grumbles, extending his hand to me. I shake it, about to tell him it’s nice to meet him, when a loud howl sounds from behind me.

My eyes widen, and I slap a hand over my mouth to smother my laughter. An impossibly tall man is standing with his back to us, dressed in the most ridiculously tight suit I’ve ever seen. It’s navy blue, with white stripes where the stitching is on the sides, and it almost looks like it’s velvet from here. But it fits him like a glove.

His black hair is pushed back on the top, shaved on the sides, and I can see his quads from the back. That man has some freaking muscular legs. Holy moly, that ass. I’ve never seen a more biteable ass.

What the hell, Kaitlyn?! I say to myself as my palm meets my forehead. But when I drop my hand and look back at the said bitable ass, I take small steps until my back is pressed against the wall.

There is no way. I quickly turn, hoping to use my hair as a shield. My mind runs rampant. What would be worse, if he recognized me or if he had no idea? Both would hurt in different ways, I suppose.

I don’t have time to think about it, though, because soon, small hands land on my shoulders as she turns me back around. “Kait,” Scarlett sings. “This is Sammy.”

Those nameless silver eyes I’ve spent years trying to make proud stare back at me. Then he smiles, his lip ring glinting in the low light, and I fear I’ve already lost whatever game life has decided it wants to play with me.

CHAPTER 7

Markus

For the first time in my life, I’m speechless. The woman in front of me is the very woman who I’ve thought about every time I had a bad dream for years. The questions I never got answers to, maybe they added a layer of guilt, not knowing if I actually helped her escape, or if she was dragged right back to whatever hell she was running from.

“Sammy, this is Kaitlyn Tyler. She owns Tattered Pages,” Lettie continues, completely oblivious to the movie reel running through my head of that night.

My friends know none of what transpired that night, though. So, unless I want to give us both away, I feign innocence. “Markus,” I drawl, extending my hand to her. As she slides her palm against mine, I realize that it swallows hers. The sheer size difference would be comical if her hand wasn’t freezing.

The temperature difference sends a jolt through me, sharp and sudden, and I pull my hand back before I can stop myself. I clear my throat, offering her a smile I hope doesn’t look like a grimace.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Pulling in a deep breath, I force my shoulders down, my jaw tightening as I beg my body not to send itself over the cliff right now. It’s not cold. Her hand was cold. You’re not in danger, nor are any of them. Relax.

The woman is stunning, with long brown hair, amber eyes with a hint of green, lush, full lips, and a body that songs are written about. How did I not notice her this way the night I met her?

Maybe it was the way she looked at me, eyes wide, fear-stricken in a way that reminded me of Millie seconds before we went down. Maybe that activated my fight or flight, and I just acted, hoping to make up for failing the first time.

My brows furrow as I notice her lips move, but I don’t hear a word of what she says. The longer I stand here in silence, the more dejected she looks. I can’t think straight, and the panic starts to swirl. My chest tightens, and I sway a bit on my feet.

“Oy. ¿Qué te pasa?”⁠* Lettie gets right in front of me, lightly swatting me in the shoulder. I ignore her question. That’s a longer list than I have time to run through at the moment. I give my head a soft shake, trying to clear the fog threatening to pull me under.

Monroe must see it written on my face because he intercepts before I make a complete fool of myself. “Hey, go make your rounds. We’ll catch up with you later,” he says as he pushes me in the opposite direction.

Translation: Get yourself together before someone notices.

I nod, slap on a smile that’s been weaponized by years of media training, and turn away from Kaitlyn and the girls who are staring daggers in my direction. Kait’s teary eyes are almost enough to make me stop and fix whatever is bothering her. She won’t look at me, which is probably for the best. We don’t need to go back there.