I slipped my hands into his, ignoring that same sizzle I’d felt when we’d first shaken hands, even as it snaked up my arms, across my chest, then downward.

Soren’s hands tightened on mine, and then he was pulling up.

When it came to stature, I certainly looked like the kind of woman who would be picked up. Personality-wise, though, I would probably knee a guy in the groin if he tried.

I’d always been secretly insecure about how short and slight I was. It was hard being a woman in a violent, male-dominated field. It was harder still being a small woman in it. I was underestimated constantly. I had to be twice as tough to get half the respect.

I wasn’t an idiot; I knew how my colleagues talked about me and my “temper.” But they conveniently forget that it’s not until I throw a fit—or a pool ball—that I’m taken seriously.

Somehow, though, nothing about Soren lifting me up off my feet and onto the stage felt uncomfortable. Or like he was judging me.

I was just thinking that I wouldn’t mind if he picked me up by my ass and carried me to bed when my feet landed on the stage.

The problem was that (A) I was distracted and (B) I temporarily forgot I was wearing heels. So when I put my weight down, it landed wrong, and I wobbled. Hard.

Soren’s arm shot out, going around my lower back to stop me from falling. But he’d overestimated his strength, knocking me right into his chest.

All my air rushed out of me. At his nearness, at the breadth of his chest against me, his strong arm around me, his leather and tobacco scent overpowering me.

My heartbeat tripped into overdrive as a flush crept across my chest, up my neck, and bloomed over my cheeks.

My gaze flicked up to his, finding him already watching me intensely.

On my hip, his fingers tightened ever so slightly.

I knew I needed to move away, to put professional distance back between us.

In the end, though, it was Soren who came to his senses first.

“A bit like a newborn foal in those things, Miss Amato,” he said, the warmth in his eyes tamping down the knee-jerk irritation that always bubbled up when someone teased me.

“Saff,” I corrected.

“Saff,” he repeated. And we just weren’t going to talk about the way a little shiver moved through my insides at the sound of my name from between his lips. “Is that short for something?”

“Saffron,” I admitted before I could think better of it.

Why did I just tell him that?

I never told anyone that.

No one in the family knew that.

I’d had it legally changed to Saff years ago, so no one would ever find out.