I’m glad you still have your survival instinct.”

“We’ve all got something.” I lift my fingertips to the exposed skin on my face. It’s colder than the night sea. Cupping my hands, I blow into them, let my breath warm my nose and cheeks. “I apparently still have a face, which is good.”

Holden vaults up onto the wooden platform and I step up after him. “That is good,” he says, pulling me in close. He lifts his gloved hands to my cheeks. “After all, this is one of my favorite faces.”

I scrunch my lips into a pretend pout. “One of?”

He grins. “Well, you know. I’m a sucker for the classics. Helen of Troy, the Mona Lisa, that—”

“Hey. The Mona Lisa isn’t even hot.” I give him a little shove away from me, toward the edge of the platform.

“Disagree,” Holden says. “She’s beautiful in her own way. That mischievous smile, those dark, soulful eyes, the way she—”

“Fine, whatever.” I cross my arms. “But I insist on being ranked above her.”

“Okay, okay,” Holden says. “Yours can be my second-favorite face . . . right after that guy from The Scream.” He pulls me in close again.

“You’re such an ass,” I say, as our lips touch.

Holden laughs. “My girl Mona Lisa would never be so rude.

Paula Stokes