Page 13 of Head Over Skates

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage to muster the courage to reply.

He slowly shakes his head. “Don’t play games, little cat. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m curious, though. Preening Pucks? With your sharp tongue, you could have come up with something better than that.”

I force a laugh. "What makes you think it's me?"

A sly smile curves at the corner of his lips, putting my female bits on alert. "Oh, Emily," he drawls, his voice laced with amusement. "You underestimate me."

With a deep breath, I muster all the strength within me and meet his smoldering gaze head-on.

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I though? It all makes sense now. That enormous camera. Your little notebook. The guilty look you have in your eyes even now.” He tilts his head, and I swear he’s the devil himself as he bends down to growl a dark, heated whisper in my ear.

“You’re. Busted.”

I can feel the depths of his voice crawl down into my belly button. Down through my legs. My knees. My wobbly ankles. If I look down, surely I’ll find the ice has melted into a puddle at my feet.

I must not look down at any cost, because he can’t win this. I won’t let him even think he has me, not for a second.

“Awww,” I croon like I’m talking to the big baby he is. “Did somebowy get his feewings hurt?”

His face is so, so close to me. One more inch and our noses would touch. Yet I stand my ground, even under his hot stare and accusing grin.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I think… no. IKNOWI have the right to post anything I want on my blog.”

He laughs hard and snaps his fingers. “Aha! So you admit it.”

“I, uh…”

“I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. I was ninety-nine point nine percent sure, but now… ha ha! I got you.”

He can’t possibly have been bluffing this whole time. The snake. I roll my eyes and make to slide away from him, but he scoops around me with those big, black skates and blocks my exit. I sigh, tired of this game of his. So what if he found me out? It’s not like I can get fired over it. Joe loves me.

I give him a sarcastic slow clap. “Congratulations. You just proved you’re a certifiable stalker. It’s not going to stop me from writing what I want.”

Owen's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Au contraire, mon petit chaton. I know your secret. Who you are. Wouldn’t that make a fun social media post?" He fans his fingers out like he’s throwing a headline out into the ether. “Emily Brooks trades Olympic gold for Zamboni.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would. Unless…”

"What do you want?" I say through my teeth.

"So glad you asked. I want you to write a new blog post," he says, his voice dripping with arrogance. "A post that speaks only of my greatness on the ice."

I snort. “Your greatness? Somebody has an oversized ego.”

I'd laugh at his audacity if I wasn’t so angry. How dare he!

“In addition to your post covering the highlights of the game and our athletic discipline, you are going to mention my charity work, and the many generous donations I’ve made to transitional housing and underprivileged children’s sports teams.”

“If you think I’ll blow your horn, mister…”

His eyes darken as they dip down to rake over my lips. Ugh. He’s such a pig.

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