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Ridiculous.

It's just a hand. I've touched hands before.

Lots of them.

But when I place mine in his, that same heat races up my arm.

Grimm's fingers close around mine. His expression changes.

Only for a second.

But I see it.

He feels something, too. I know he does. His eyes lock with mine.

“Careful.”

I glance at the limo.

“I'm perfectly capable of getting into a car.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“Then why the warning?”

His thumb moves over the back of my hand.

Once.

Barely there.

My breath catches.

“Because I'd hate to see you fall.”

Something about the words sends a shiver through me. I climb into the limousine.

Grimm follows. And as he settles into the seat across from me, those dark, watchful eyes finding mine again, one thought slides into my head.

I'm in trouble.

Big.

Handsome.

Limousine-owning trouble.

Chapter Eight

Dinner is wonderful.

Actually, wonderful doesn't cover it.

Dinner is freaking perfect.

We're seated in a private room at one of Castor's Corner's nicest restaurants, tucked away from the main dining room behind heavy wooden doors.

Apparently, this is what happens when you have dinner with a principal and a man who travels by limousine.