I squeezed his hand. “You’re right—she is crazy. But don’t worry. We have a plan.”

He frowned at me, giving me a sideways glance laced with suspicion. “What kind of plan?”

Before I could answer, the doors parted and announced our arrival to the lobby. He looked away from me, and I saw that his eyes were rimmed with sorrow and something else, something like helplessness.

Maybe it was because of our amazing kiss last week, or maybe it was because of the emails he’d been trading with me as The Socialmedialite, but I felt protective of him, possessive. I wanted to keep him safe; I wanted to cheer him up. But I was clumsy at real-life interactions. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to be anything other than quiet, because when I spoke my thoughts, disaster and weirdness were usually close behind.

Acting on instinct, because I wanted to give him comfort, I tugged him out of the elevator, slid my hand into the crook of his elbow, and walked close to his side.

“Come with me, and I’ll tell you about it. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’m starving.”

He glowered at the glass doors leading to the street, the set of his jaw stern and surly. “I’ve already eaten.”

“Then you can watch me eat.” After I finished making the suggestion, I grimaced, and my cheeks warmed. That sounded really strange. Why would he want to watch me eat?

He moved just his eyes to mine. They were almost completely hidden beneath his thick, dark lashes, and I was pleased to see his expression soften with curiosity. “What are you going to eat?”

“Uh, I was thinking about an éclair.” My words were quietly spoken because they were somewhat embarrassing.

The first time he saw me, I was eating an éclair. He was probably going to consider me obsessed with éclairs, which was true. I was obsessed with éclairs.

His mouth crooked to the side. “Yeah, okay. That might be fun.”

His answer was surprising; his assent sounded completely genuine, like he actually thought watching me eat would be fun. I couldn’t help my small answering smile.

“Okay. Good.”

“Good.” He grinned, his eyes moving over my face.

I was so busy being lost in his truly magnificent bone structure and gently curving smile and warm eyes that reminded me of chocolate fondue and chocolate ganache and chocolate everything that I tripped as we exited the building.

“Gah—shit!” I lurched forward, stumbling and reaching out with my free hand.

Ronan caught me before I could make a cement face-plant and turned me toward him; he held my upper arms to keep me steady.

“Whoa, are you all right?”

I nodded, scowling at my clumsiness. “Sorry, I’m just obviously…. I’m not good at walking…sometimes.”

“Well, you can’t be good at everything,” he teased.

I felt my scowl give way, and I rolled my eyes. “Yes, of course it would be too much to expect that I’d be a proficient walker.”

“Luckily for you, I’m quite gifted at walking. Here,” he said, sliding his arm around my shoulders and pressing me close to his side, “if I hold you like this, then you can share some of my mad walking skills.”

I scrunched my face, my arms feeling awkward at my sides as we walked in this position. I tried tucking my hand into my dress pocket, but that just made me elbow him in the stomach.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you wiggling around like that?”

“Where do I put my arm? It feels weird just hanging here.”

He threw his head back and laughed. Eventually he glanced at me as his fit of humor tapered off. He looked at me like I was adorable and hilarious and enchanting. It made me feel less and more awkward at the same time.

“Put it around me, like this.” He pulled my arm around his middle so that my hand rested on his opposite hip. A heated flush spread from my chest to my throat at the way I was touching him. It felt entirely too intimate, like we were embracing while we walked.

Ronan was so strong and solid and male. I tried to swallow away the dichotomously wonderful and alarming sensations being so close to him elicited. My stomach twisted and fluttered. I tried to even my breathing and failed.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked. I found him watching me with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, something is wrong. You’re breathing funny, and you’re really tense. If you can’t loosen up, we’re going to stop here, and I’ll make you relax by giving you a back massage…or an orgasm.”

I snorted a surprised laugh and then covered my mouth with the hand that wasn’t currently touching his hip.

His answering laugh—a shocked bark likely caused by the sound of my inelegant snort—made me laugh even harder.

“What is that sound? Are you snorting?” He squeezed my shoulders as we crossed the street, his voice thick with amusement.

I snorted again—because when I laugh, I snort like the love child of a pig and an alligator unless I hold my nose, in which case I sound like I’ve got a terrible case of the hiccups—which made him laugh even harder. Soon we were in a perpetual laughter loop, and we had to stop in front of a bike shop to catch our breath. I couldn’t look at him without bursting into a snorting fit of giggles, so I kept my eyes on the sidewalk until he pulled me forward and hugged me to him.

I was paralyzed by my own merriment and didn’t push him away; instead, I buried my head against his chest, gripping the lapels of his jacket and enjoying the rolling, rumbly cadence of his laughter as it receded. He had a great laugh, a sexy laugh. My laugh was the mating call of the Yeti.