His face was flushed from the cold, his eyes dark and searching. A stray snowflake landed on his eyelash, and Michelle had the insane, overwhelming urge to reach out and brush it away. She could smell him, the crisp winter air, the wool of his coat, and that deep, underlying scent of cedar that had haunted her dreams for a decade.
"I have a teammate," she managed to say, though her voice was barely a whisper. "She’ll be here any second."
"She’s busy," Jeremiah murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. "And I don't think she'd mind if I took a prisoner."
He leaned in closer. Not to kiss her, but close enough that she could feel the radiating heat of his body. The tension was agonizing. It was the feeling of a bowstring pulled back to the point of snapping.
