Baby It's Cold Outside by Addison Fox Page A

wrapped around each other, even though it was more an abstract sense of movement than two clearly defined bodies. Long, curving lines matched with hard-edged corners. A sensual feast chiseled out of one of the most unyielding substances on earth.
    As she simply stood and soaked in the sensuality the piece evoked, she wondered if she was as unyielding as the granite that arched before her. How could she have—even for one moment—thought it was a war memorial?
    It was yet another testament to assumptive thought and a stubborn close-mindedness that seemed to have gripped her since stepping off the train the evening before.
    “Do you like it?” Walker’s breath puffed out in front of him, the husky timbre of his voice magnified by the biting cold.
    “It’s beautiful. And unexpected. Pretty much like everything else in this town.”
    “You haven’t been here that long.”
    “And hardly anything is what I thought it would be.”
    “What were you expecting?” Sloan turned his words over in her mind, unable to decipher a lick of snark in them. He must have sensed the question in her gaze because he added, “And there’s no prickly stick in my ass prompting the question.”
    No, there wasn’t.
    “I’ve spent my life in an environment that’s all about expectations. And I guess I never realized how many of them I had myself. It’s sort of an irritating discovery, truth be told.”
    “Irritating?”
    “Deeply.” She sighed and kneeled down as her gaze landed on the edge of a carving etched in the marble base of the monument. With her gloved hand, she brushed away the snow caked there to reveal words.
    The rush of emotion caught her—blindsided her, actually—square in the throat. On a whispered breath, she read the engraving. “‘For those we aren’t allowed to keep.’ ”
    Silence descended between them and in the still quiet, Sloan heard the distant honk of a car horn, the light punctuation of shouted conversations farther down Main Street.
    “You should probably stand up. Your jeans aren’t made for kneeling in the snow.” As Walker extended his hand to her, helping her rise, Sloan couldn’t quite keep the unexpected sentimental tears from spilling over.
    With a peculiar clarity, she couldn’t help but compare these tears to the ones she’d shed only a few nights prior, after her encounter with Trent. Where that had left her empty and sad, this left a different sort of mark.
    Something quieter. Deeper. And oddly, more hopeful.
    True love did exist.
    It lived and breathed, floating on the air and dancing a merry tune between those lucky enough to find it.
    “Thank you for bringing me here.”
    Walker removed one of his gloves and ran a finger from her chin to her jaw, then over her cheek to catch a tear on the tip. Her stomach tightened at the tender ministration, the barely-there touch registering with the force of a hurricane.
    A lock of dark hair blew against his forehead in the light breeze that swirled around them as he reached toward her other cheek. With the same tenderness, he brushed away another tear as she fought the urge to lean in to him. Caught in the moment, need rose up to replace the nerves in her belly with a growing, greedy desire for more of his touch.
    She wanted to take, but something held her back. Nerves? Fear?
    With one last glance toward the monument, she stepped back, turning herself in the direction of downtown.
    “We should get back.”
    He gave a short nod and a simple, husky, “Yes.” But as she walked next to him down the frozen sidewalks of Main Street, Sloan felt the heat of desire that burned the air hot between them.
     
    The words blurring before his eyes had Walker reaching for the pair of wire frames that lay next to his coffee mug. With the reluctant grace of someone who knew he was losing the battle, he shoved the glasses onto his nose and stared down at the brief that awaited his attention.
    “You wearing those to poker night, Mr. Professor?”
    Walker