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I glance up from the food log she handed me, and yeah. There she is.

Clipboard clutched in a death grip. Five-foot-nothing with a mouth that could drop a grown man, and eyes sharp enough to slice through ice. She’s looking at me like she’s one breath away from climbing me—or clocking me.

My pulse kicks hard.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, lips pressed tight, chest rising and falling like she’s trying not to lose her shit. Or maybe trying not to remember something she shouldn’t.

“What?” My tone’s harsh, but what the fuck?

She blinks like I woke her up from somewhere far away. Still doesn’t speak.

“Kat?” The nickname slips out. Unfiltered. Rough. “You good? Or did I grow horns since I walked in?”

Her gaze darts to mine, and for a split second, there’s a flicker. Panic. Shock. Worry.

I don’t know…but then it’s gone. She clears her throat—flips her clipboard open like she didn’t just short-circuit for a second.

But something’s off. I know tension. I breathe tension. And whatever this is? It’s charged.

Like the air right before a fight breaks out on the ice. Or a kiss you’re not supposed to want.

I shift, arms flexing out of habit. Her eyes drop—right to my chest.

“Seriously,” I say, mouth twitching into something close to a grin, “you done checking me out? Or is this part of your data-gathering?”

She jerks her gaze up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re looking at me like I’m protein-packed and ready to go in a smoothie.”

A pink flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t look away.

Good. I don’t like easy. And she sure as hell isn’t.

“I wasn’t staring,” she snaps. “I was… analyzing.”

I arch a brow. “Analyzing, huh. You do that for all the guys or just the ones with rock hard abs and bad reputations?”

She slices her eyes, “Please. I’ve seen better.”

That one hits. Right between the ribs.

“Yeah?” I step closer. “You say that like you’ve got a point of comparison.”

“I work with professional athletes,” she deadpans. “You’re not special.”

Ouch.

Except... why does that dig land harder than it should?

“Let’s just get through this,” she mutters, circling behind me.

I hold still as she starts taking measurements. Skin-to-skin contact, professional as hell—but my body doesn’t care. Her hands brush over my ribs, across my back. Clinical.

But all I can think about is how those same hands would feel gripping my hair, dragging down my stomach, curling tight around my—

Focus.

I exhale slow. Think about anything but the way she smells—something sharp and clean, like mint and sunshine. Not that it helps. It’s familiar in a way I can’t place, and that familiarity’s starting to piss me off.