Page 32 of Home Ice

"Never have. Why would I? It's a car."

"Because it's not just a—" I huff out a breath. "Anyway Sebastian. Did the mechanic do anything other than the bumper?" He looks up. Two beers in his left hand and guilt all over his face. "Brant! You can't do things like this!"

"Did they make it worse? I'll take it back and make sure they do it right this time. I'll make sure they fire the person who did it wrong."

"Stop. He's perfect now."

Brant reaches across the counter and smiles as he hands me the beer. "Oh good."

"Not good. Sebastian isn't perfect. That's part of his charm. That's all of his charm, actually."

He narrows his eyes and starts to say something before deciding to blow out a breath instead.

"You can't just go around fixing everyone's cars."

"Only yours. Should I be sorry? Sorry I made your car better and safer for you?"

"Just forget I said anything." I turn away from him and face the living room. The very stark living room. Its walls are bright white and mostly blank, other than a few black and white prints. The furniture is all black. There aren't even any throw pillows. The floor looks like it's dark grey concrete. It's cold. And nothing at all like Brant.

"Hey." He moves in front of me so I have nowhere to look but at him. And at those face and those eyes. "I wanted to do it for you."

I close my eyes to avoid looking at him. "I don't like people doing things for me. It makes me feel…" Helpless. The way I felt when I first came out. When everyone except Dad left me. "I just don't like the way it makes me feel."

I hear him take a few breaths before I finally flutter my eyes open to find all of his attention on me. "Then I need to apologize because there's something about you that makes me want to do things for you." It already feels like he's standing on top of me, but somehow he takes a step closer. I wonder how our bodies aren't touching. But when I look down, there's still an impossible gap between us. "I need you to get used to it, because I'm not going to stop."

"I can take care of myself." I lean back until the top of the island digs into my back, but it's still less uncomfortable than being this close to him. Isn't there always a timer that goes off just about now in these situations? Please let a timer go off. I wait for a moment, but there's no sound except the blood pulsing in my ears.

"I know. I see it. That's one of the things I like about you." He sets his beer onto the counter beside me and keeps his arm there to trap me between him and the wall.

My lungs don't want to work with him this close to me. I need to get him away. "Your house doesn't… there's not much color." I have to force the words.

"Says the girl who lives in a practically empty house. What is your story, Lily? What are you doing here?"

I only had two sips of the beer, but the world is spinning. Why does talking about it seem like both the easiest and hardest thing in the world? My dad was so proud of me that he would talk about me to anyone who would listen. Even those who wouldn't listen still heard about me and the things I was doing. It seemed like he would tell me at least once a week about someone he ran into. A relative, an old friend, a former church member. No matter who it was, he loved telling them about me. Telling them that one day I would be the lead trainer for the Colorado Lightning. That I would be the one running out to the mound when a pitcher landed wrong. The way he said it made it sound like I would be the star, like everyone in the stands would be there just to see me jog out of the dugout with the manager at my side. But I can't even say three words about him now? The only person in my life that I knew in my gut I could count on no matter what?

Because I know if I start talking about him, I need to say it all. There's no way for anyone to understand my relationship with him without knowing the past, and I've spent most of my lifetime trying to bury that past so I would never have to face it again. I've never wanted to tell anyone before. Em is always telling me I need to be more open and let people in. Against my better judgement, I tried with Tyler, and look where that got me. But I want to tell Brant. The realization hits me like a wave that picks me off my feet while wading in the ocean. I want him to know this. I want him to know me. "Do you really want to know?"

He angles his head down and smolders at me. I don't know how the hell a person smolders, but he's doing it right now. And it's directed straight at me. "I want to know everything about you."

"For the competition?"

"No. For me."

I hear my shakiness as I draw in a deep breath. "I'm here because of my dad. He—" Of course the exact second I get the courage to let this man in, is the exact moment when the oven timer finally goes off. "You should get that."

"It can wait."

"It smells incredible." The beep has to be a sign, right? It has to be the universe saving me from making the second biggest mistake of my life. "Go."

Brant doesn't go anywhere. "I think you might be secretly incredible." He traces a finger down my forearm. His light touch pulls every bit of air from my lungs and raises goosebumps on every bit of skin, and while his finger is gliding down my arm, his mouth is moving closer to mine. It's one of those moments where everything seems so slow. The way it does when something is either so horrible or so perfect that our brains just can't process it at real speed. I tilt my head, just enough to give room for our noses to slip beside each other. Then I close my eyes and wait for that magical moment when a symphonic wave of electrical fireworks will bloom as his mouth comes down on mine like an earthquake or maybe a tsunami. All the cliches. I want every single one of them. Instead of that, I hear the patter of claws on the concrete floor. I open my eyes and see that Brant is already looking down. Silver is at our feet. An enormous dog curling his way through a space that's barely big enough for a cat. As he turns around for another pass, he looks so pleased at being able to pet himself from both sides. If the universe hadn't made itself clear with the timer, it certainly does now.

"You should get the oven," I say.

He blows out a breath. "I should get the oven."

Brant walks around the kitchen island, and I'm like a swimmer caught in a riptide, dragged right behind him. I'm so close that he has to wait for me to step back to give room for the oven door to swing open.

"You must be hungry."

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