With the soft sound of shoes grinding on rock salt, Kisten shifted back.

“Hi, Rachel,” he said, his eyes taking in my clothes. A faint stiffening of the skin about his eyes told me I had guessed correctly; I wasn’t dressed for whatever he had planned. I wished I knew what he had on under the luscious gray wool coat he was wearing. It went all the way to his boot tops and looked classy. He had shaved, too—his usual day-old stubble gone—giving him a polished look I wasn’t used to seeing on him.

“This isn’t what I’m wearing,” I said by way of greeting. “Come on in. I just need a minute to change.”

“Sure.” Past him at the curb was his black Corvette, the light snow melting as it hit. He edged in past me, and I pulled the door thumping shut behind him.

“Ivy’s in the kitchen,” I said, starting back to my room, his soft steps following right behind me. “She had a bad afternoon. She won’t talk to me, but she might talk to you.”

“She called me,” he said, the careful cadence of his words telling me he knew about Piscary asserting his dominance over her. “You’re going to put on different boots, right?”

I jerked to a stop at the door to my room. “What’s wrong with my boots?” I said, thinking they were the only thing that I was going to keep on. Ah … the only thing from this outfit, not the only thing total.

He looked at them, his dyed-blond eyebrows high. “They’re what, five inches?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s icy. You’re going to slip and break your ass.” His blue eyes widened. “I mean your rear end.”

A smile crossed my face at the thought that he was trying to clean up his mouth for me. “They make me as tall as you, too,” I said smugly.

“I noticed.” He hesitated. With a little jiggle, he whisked past me and into my room.

“Hey!” I protested as he went right to my closet. “Get out of my room!”

Ignoring me, he pushed all the way to the back where I put everything I didn’t like. “I saw something here the other day,” he said, making a small exclamation as he leaned to tug at something. “Here,” he said, holding out a pair of drab black boots. “Start with these.”

“Those?” I complained as he set them aside and stuck his arms back into my closet. “There’s no heel to those at all. And they’re four years old and out of style. And what were you doing in my closet?”

“That’s a classic boot,” Kisten said, affronted. “It never goes out of style. Put them on.” He shuffled about again, pulling something out by feel, as he couldn’t possibly see anything back there. My face warmed when I saw an old suit I’d forgotten I had. “Oh, this is just ugly,” he said, and I snatched it out of his hands.

“It’s my old interview suit,” I said. “It’s supposed to be ugly.”