Lucy gulped, then raised her hand above her head to catch his eye. When she eventually did, after some rigorous waving and yoo-hooing, her knees nearly buckled. His eyes locked on hers and a grin spread across his face. He raised one hand in a greeting, then started making his way through the crowd to her. Lucy remained where she was and in moments, he was there looking down at her, the grin still intact. “Lucy?” he asked.

She nodded, gulped again, then finally found the ability to say, “Uh, yes. Hello,” which she followed up with, “Very nice to see you again.” Even when dumbstruck, which was more often than she liked, she tended to use her manners. Still, she wished she had something more eloquent to say.

“Yeah. For sure. So, you want me to take that?” he pointed to her case.

“Oh, yes please. Sorry, just a little discombobulated.” He seemed to like her choice of word and a smile danced in his eyes—his gorgeous, cobalt blue eyes.

“Oh, no problem. I’m always a little out of it when I fly too. Come on, let’s get outta here. This place is insane.” Lucy followed the blond hair and the man attached to it out of the terminal.

There was nothing that could have prepared her for the blast of cold that hit as soon as they walked through the automatic doors—not the boots or woollen coat or leather gloves she was wearing—not even a lifetime of living in the UK.

“Oh, my god,” she gasped.

Will looked over his shoulder and stopped. “You okay?” She stood, stock still, her hands flying to her face as the pain in her lungs intensified. “It’s the cold,” he stated, matter-of-factly. She nodded vaguely. “Let’s get you to the car. Come on.” He took her hand and stepped up the pace to the car park. She didn’t even have the presence of mind to notice the handholding.

A few minutes later, they were ensconced in a four-wheel-drive and Will was blasting the heater. “There are seat warmers too,” he said, flipping a switch on the dash.

As the warm air spewed from the vents in front of her, she started feeling her muscles uncoiling. Her cheeks stopped stinging and she could breathe without it hurting. “It’s really cold here,” she said eventually, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m guessing London doesn’t get like this, huh?” She shot a look across the car. He was watching her, one hand resting on the steering wheel and one on his thigh. His hands were large, strong-looking, and unblemished. Her mind flew to all the things he could do with those hands. Stop it, Lucy, she admonished. He’d asked her a question; manners dictated that she should answer it.

“I suppose. Maybe it does, but just a different kind of cold.”

“It’s fifteen below, right now.” She didn’t even bother doing the conversion from Fahrenheit to Celsius; it was ridiculously cold on either scale.