Melting the Ice Queen ✔️

~3~

Why did that make her so anxious? 

So Scott wanted to talk about something; big deal. People talked all the time. On the other hand, when had a pleasant conversation with a happy ending ever begun with the words, "We need to talk?" Never. That's when.

Was this it then—the end? Had he found someone else? Or was he just sick of her?

That familiar feeling of icy aloofness settled over her, the way it always did when she was uncertain about something, providing a nice layer of protection and the illusion of control. When she was in control, she didn't get hurt.

So she stared at Scott with all the haughty coolness she could manage. "What is it?"

He adjusted the sheet around his hips, clearly not ready to spit it out yet. "You don't need to look at me like that. It's nothing bad."

Oh, yeah? Tell that to her frantic pulse. "You're stalling."

"You're not making this easy."

"I don't bite."

"No," he agreed. "You just freeze me out whenever I get too close."

She was well aware of that. Not that she wanted to admit it. How could she be anything other than distant when she spent so much time struggling to hide all her neuroses? It took a lot of energy to maintain this Super Woman façade. If she let him—or anyone—get too close, they'd see that it was all a lie.

"I don't know where this conversation is headed." Finished with her clothes and shoes, she marched down the hall to the living room, where she hoped to find her purse and get the hell out of there. He stayed right on her heels, his long strides eating up the distance between them. "But I don't have time—"

"Brr." In an Oscar-worthy performance, he wrapped his arms around that chiseled torso and shivered as though he'd done a lap in the Arctic Ocean. Defiance flashed in his dark eyes, as though he was happy to get this discussion started at last and didn't give a damn what she wanted. "Is it cold in here to you?"

Okay. That was a low blow, and he was coming dangerously close to accusing her of cowardice. Maybe she was a coward, but damn him for pointing it out. She'd picked up her purse, but now she tossed it down and decided to face him like the woman she pretended she was.

"Fine. You want to talk? Spit it out then."

That brought him up short, and he flushed. With a low growl of frustration, he turned away and ran his hands over the top of his head. Finally he turned back, his expression resolute but otherwise blank.

"I don't want to do it like this, Alicia, not with anger—"

"Spit it out."

"Fine." That dark gaze trapped her in its unyielding depths. "I'm in love with you."

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