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.