I wrote this piece around 15 years ago, as a writers’ group homework exercise.

​I was standing alone at the bar when he approached me. He extended his hand.

​“Frost by name, frost by nature,” he said, half-smiling.

​Taking his icy hand, his long fingers wrapping themselves around mine, I was forced to agree.

​He had white-blond hair and finely-textured pale skin. But it was his eyes. They were so deep and cold and blue that they made the North Sea look warm and shallow.

​His eyes. Cold, but they flashed warm when they looked at me.

​“I’m Megan,” I said.

​“I know,” he replied. “You’re an esteemed friend of the bride’s.”

​“Yes.” I sipped my drink. “Frost – is that your first name or surname?”

​He smiled that half-smile again. “It’s the only name I need.”

​“Oh.” Here we go, I thought. Another international man of mystery, playing his dangerous games.

​Then he smiled briefly at me, and for a second, his eyes flashed warm again.

And I was drawn to him, intrigued by the split-second fire in those oh-so chilly, blue eyes.

​And my own heart, encrusted by layers of glacial ice, slowly thawed.

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