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Frost creeps over the toe of my boot and I have to resist the urge to stamp my foot to break it off. It would draw attention, and it's important no one else notice.
"Roark," I hiss as quietly as I can. "Knock it off."
Roark doesn't acknowledge me, except to grab my hand and kiss it. He puts it on his arm and pulls me to his side. I give up and smile–not very nicely–at Roark's ex.
The faerie's eyes widen and he leaves quickly.
"He had the nerve to say you didn't seem like rye whiskey."