Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            Asshole.

            He observes me for long moments before coming closer. Then he crouches in front of me, widens the gap between the layers of blankets to better see my eyes, and says, “I’m afraid to ask.”

            “Th-th-the heat isn’t working. I already looked into it—I think a fuse has b-blown. I called the guy who fixed it last t-time, he should b-be here in half an hour.”

            Liam cocks his head. “You’re under three Snuggies. Why are your lips blue?”

            “It’s freezing! I can’t get warm.”

            “It’s not that cold.”

            “Maybe it’s not that cold when you have six hundred pounds of muscles to insulate you, but I’m gonna d-d-die.”

            “Are you.”

            “Of hypothermia.”

            He is definitely pressing his lips together to avoid smiling. “Would you like to borrow my baby-seal fur coat?”

            I hesitate. “Do you really have one?”

            “Would you want it, if I did?”

            “I’m scared to find out.”

            He shakes his head and sits next to me on the couch. “Come here.”

            “What?”

            “Come here.”

            “No. Why? Are you planning to steal my seat? Back off. It took me ages to warm it up—”

            I don’t get to finish the sentence. Because he picks me up, Snuggies and all, and lifts me across his lap until my ass is resting on his thighs. Which . . .

            Oh.

            This is new.

            For a moment, my spine stiffens and my muscles tense in surprise. But it’s very brief, because he’s so deliciously toasty. Way cozier than my stupid spot on the couch, and his skin . . . it smells familiar and good. So, so good. “You’re so warm.” I let my forehead fall against his cheek. “It’s like you generate heat.”

            “I think all humans do.” His nose touches the icy tip of my ear. “It’s physics, or something.”

            “First law of th-thermodynamics. Energy can be neither created nor destroyed.”

            His hand travels up my spine to cup my nape, and the temperature is suddenly five, ten degrees higher. Heat licks down my spine and spreads around my torso. My breasts. My belly. I almost whimper. “Except by you, apparently,” he says.

            “It’s so unfair.” Liam’s thumb is tracing patterns on the skin of my throat, and I have no choice but to sigh. I’m already feeling better. I’m glowing.

            “That you are where the heat goes to die?”

            “Yeah.” I burrow closer into his chest. “Maybe my parents are secretly shark shapeshifters. Of the cold-blooded, poikilothermic variety. They forgot to warn me that I inherited zero thermoregulation skills and should never live on dry land.”

            “It’s the only possible explanation.” His breath chuffs against my temples, a fine, pleasant itch.

            “For my pathological inability to maintain thermal homeostasis?”

            “For how little they appreciate you.” He’s suddenly holding me a little tighter. A little closer. “Also, for how rare you like your steak.”

            “I . . . Medium rare.” My voice shakes. I tell myself that it’s because of the cold and not the fact that he remembers the things I told him about my family.

            “Please. Basically raw.”

            “Humph.” No point in arguing with him, not when he’s right. Not when his hand is running up and down my arm—a warming, calming gesture, even through the blankets. “Do you think he’ll be able to fix the fuse tonight?”

            “I hope so. If not, I’ll run to the store and get you a heater.”