“—while I … am different,” she said, ignoring the catch in her own voice. “You are the sort of man who can, er, like someone and have a good time with them, then stop liking them and be done. But I don’t think that sort of arrangement would suit our familial circumstances, and anyway, I’m … not interested.” There. That was nice and neat and clinical and very handily avoided any examination of her feelings toward or about Will Reid. Perfect. Now he’d flinch away from her psychoanalysis, realise she was right after all, and move the fuck on from whatever this mental/emotional blip had been. Which was exactly what she wanted. Obviously. Definitely.

Okay, maybe not exactly what she wanted, but it was the safest outcome she could possibly get.

Unfortunately for her, Will had never been safe.

He switched off the engine, undid his seatbelt, and turned to face her. “You’re high,” he said plainly. Then he got out of the car.

A bolt of annoyance crackled through her. She undid her belt and hopped out after him. “I’m clearly not, William,” she snapped, wrapping her arms around herself to battle the cold.

“Then why are you being ridiculous, Abigail?” The snow, though light and insubstantial, swirled between them like a barrier. He collected their shopping bags from the car boot, then caught her cold hand in his and pulled her toward the supermarket. Little white flakes smeared on her glasses. His palm was warm and tough, and even though Abbie had fairly big hands herself, she felt like his enveloped hers. It didn’t, not really, not technically. But it felt like it did.

Will tugged her, not into the bright lights of the supermarket’s entrance, but to the hidden brick alcove where employee bikes were chained up and the light dusting of snow struggled to spread. There, in the icy shadows, he turned to face her. Something about the play of light and dark across his face made him look like a slightly different man.

“If you’re not interested in me,” he said tightly, “that’s fine. But don’t tell me how I feel about you. Don’t ever.”

“Stop growling at me,” she bit back, “and get a grip.”

“Oh, fuck off, Abbie. Get a grip? Seriously? I can’t believe you’d be so—” He cut himself off with this anguished, frustrated sort of groan, dragging a hand through his hair. The image hit her like a slap. She’d spent the last hour panicking and furious, cursing him for dragging her blithely into chaos. It hadn’t ever occurred to her that Will—perfect, golden, effortless Will—might be feeling something like discomfort over this.