And then he did the craziest thing. He took her hand and helped her up the first set of stairs. As though she was some medieval damsel in distress needing assistance to climb high stairs with a gazillion skirts and not a twenty-first-century woman wearing comfortable jeans and comfortable shoes, being very capable of climbing the low steps on her own. Morana felt her eyebrows hit her hairline. Tristan Caine did not open doors or help ladies up the stairs. At least, he never had until then. His hand—exactly as she’d known it would be, rough, big, consuming—held hers, as though replacing any
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