Page 100 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Instinct told me to pull her closer.

I let her go.

The rest of the way, I kept to her outside. Every time she wobbled, I touched her elbow, just enough to stabilize her, then I released the second she found her footing.

By the time we reached the car, my jacket was soaked through, but the painting inside was safe. I set it in the backseat and opened the passenger door for her.

She was shivering, still standing in the rain. "I can call an Uber."

"No signal out here."

"Then I'll wait until it lets up."

Thunder cracked again.

I looked at her.

"Don't," she said, raising a hand to stop me. "I know. This isn't the time to be stubborn."

"Good."

"Do you have to make that face? Like you've finally gotten someone to listen?"

"I am appreciating a rare event."

She shot me a look and climbed in.

Rain hammered the roof, sealing us into a cramped, dim space. She shoved her wet hair over one shoulder. Paint, rain, and the familiar scent of her filled my lungs.

My hands tightened on the wheel, and I started the car.

I'd always known her address. I'd never let myself come close.

The storm slowed the drive back. I cranked the heat and pulled a clean towel from the back.

"Why do you have that in your car?"

"Feodor insisted on emergency supplies."

"He doesn't seem like a towel guy."

"He just doesn't want to deal with my mood when I get sick."

She dried her hair, a small smile flickering at her mouth.

At a red light, I reached over to angle her side vent higher. She lifted her hand at the same time. Our fingertips touched.

She froze. So did I.

Warm air slid through our overlapping fingers. Her skin was cold. Mine lit up like a red-hot wire yanked from my hand to my spine.

I pulled back. The light went green. Neither of us said a word about it.

When I stopped under her building, my fingertips still burned.

The rain hadn't eased. I took the painting; she grabbed her paint box. Ten steps to the door and we got soaked all over again.

The old elevator crawled to the top floor. In the metal reflection, my shirt clung to my shoulders and back; she had the towel wrapped around her, wet hair hanging over her chest, her nose red from the cold.