Page 14 of The Unlikely Spare

Therefore, it appears my honest opinions are at risk of leaking out.

“It’s tradition.” Nicholas rubs the dog’s ears as he stares up at me. “Do you give any value to that?”

“Not everything worth doing once is worth doing forever,” I reply. “I tend to judge things by what they contribute, not by how long they’ve been around.”

Nicholas’s eyes glitter with something I can’t quite name.

“My whole life is entrenched in tradition, so I guess I have a vested interest in believing traditions are important,” he says finally.

I’m struggling to reply when a horn blasts through the air. It’s apparently the signal that it’s time to retrieve the fallen birds.

Nicholas rises in one fluid motion, whistling softly to the dogs.

“Come on then. Time to earn your kibble.”

I follow him at a careful distance as the dogs weave through the frost-tipped grass like furry torpedoes. Nicholas moves with easy confidence while I scan the tree line.

Everything about this moment screams ambush potential. The isolated location, limited visibility, predictable movement patterns.

A violent rustling erupts from a nearby thicket, and something bursts upward in an explosion of noise and movement, heading directly toward Nicholas’s face.

My training kicks in. Movement equals threat, threat equals action.

I launch forward, tackling Nicholas sideways. We hit the ground hard, my body curving protectively over his. One of my arms cradles the back of his head, preventing it from cracking against the frozen earth while my torso shields his. My free hand reaches instinctively for my weapon.

Only then do I register wings beating frantically above us.

Fuck.

Nicholas lies perfectly still beneath me, those winter-ocean eyes wide with shock. My face hovers inches from his, close enough to count individual eyelashes. His breath comes in short puffs, visible in the cold air between us.

For a few heartbeats, we simply stare at each other.

“That,” Nicholas says finally, voice strained, “was a partridge. Not an assassin.”

I’m suddenly acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. My chest against his, my leg between his thighs, my hand still cradling his head.

His hair is soft, dark silk under my palm. The scent of his cologne fills my nostrils, something crisp and woodsy. His pupils have dilated, black nearly swallowing that impossible blue.

His lips part, just a fraction, and fuck if I don’t track the movement like it matters.

Heat spreads from every point where we’re pressed together. A flush crawls up his neck. I know I should look away, but I can’t.

Why the hell can’t I drag my eyes away from this man’s face?

The dogs are circling us, the yellow retriever licking enthusiastically at Nicholas’s ear.

“I’d really appreciate it,” Nicholas continues in an icy tone, “if you could remove your elbow from my spleen.”

Fuck. I roll away from him, my knee sinking into the frozen mud with a squelch as I get to my feet.

Nicholas remains splayed on the ground, leaves tangled in his dark hair, a smudge of dirt across his cheek.

“We must stop this little trend of finding ourselves in compromising positions,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up on his elbows. “At this rate, I’ll need to start charging you rent for all the time you spend in my personal space.”

He reaches up a hand imperiously. I grasp it, surprised by the strength in his fingers. He rises in one fluid motion, wincing slightly as he rotates his shoulder.

Shit. I hope I didn’t hurt him.