Page 55 of Head Over Skates

Coach nods, seeming to accept this explanation. “When Hal told me about the wrapper, I made him keep it between us. I didn't want to risk tipping off the real thief that we’re on to him. I’ve known Rousseau for years. And when I saw that wrapper, I knew it had to be him. He’s always chewing that disgusting gum.”

Emily hitches one shoulder. “I kind of like it.”

“You tried it?”

She pulls a piece from her pocket. “I’ve always had champagne taste on a beer budget. Want some?”

I cringe. “No thanks.”

Coach scrubs a hand down his face and shakes his head. "For the love of hockey, get out of here. And not a word of this to anyone, understand?"

"Yes sir," I promise, giving him a mock salute.

“And Emily?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know what you’re pretending, but this guy’s one of the good ones.”

She acknowledges him with a nod, and I take her hand, lacing my fingers with hers as Coach follows us out of the house.

18

EMILY

Iglance out the window of the rental car as the landscape whizzes by, fields and farms giving way to dense forest.

"So are you going to tell me where we're going yet?" I ask.

Owen grins, keeping his eyes on the road. "Nope, it's still a surprise."

When he told me he canceled our flights back to Toronto and wanted to go on an "adventure" instead, I thought he was joking.

“Just sit back and trust me.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh and slump back in my seat. I do trust him, damnit. That’s part of the problem.

The Quebec countryside is beautiful, I have to admit. Snow-covered evergreen trees, the frozen St. Lawrence river coming into view every so often. But the view to my left is the most extraordinary. Owen’s strong profile, his straight nose, those delicious lips I’ve been longing to kiss again. I have to force myself from ogling how the muscles tense in his forearms while he grips the steering wheel. I am not proud of the wanton woman I’ve become around him. I want to climb him like a tree. It’s like he’s unleashed the feral part of me that wants to make out with abandon.

This is not good.

After about an hour and a half, we exit the highway and start winding our way down increasingly narrow roads. Just when I'm about to demand that Owen tell me where we're going, he turns onto a small lane and I see it. Rising up out of the forest, the trees open up to reveal a village with cottages and huts, like something from a storybook.

As we park, I take in the pine trees laden with snow, the trails winding into the woods.

"What is this place?"

"You'll see," Owen says with a smile.

He pops the trunk and takes out our skates with a wry grin, leading me to an open area where there are a few barn-like buildings, their roofs covered in powder.

"Welcome to Domaine Enchanteur," Owen announces, clearly pleased with himself. "It's supposed to be one of the most beautiful skating trails in the world. I've been wanting to come here for ages."

We go into one of the buildings where Owen pays for the tickets, and after we lace up our skates, he offers me his hand as we head toward the trail entrance.

As we round a bend, the view opens up and I gasp. Before us is a winter wonderland—a huge, winding trail of ice carved through a snow-dusted forest.

It’s breathtaking, but Owen is watching me. "What do you think?"

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