Page 20 of Dearest Ronan

He shoots me his famous half smirk. “Holding your nose so you can avoid grandpa’s perfume?”

Stunned that he’d call-out someone like that, my throat grates as I shush him.

“There’s too many people packed together, butterfly.” His smirk turns into a wide grin. “Even if whoever hears us, they won’t call us out.”

“And how do you know, smarty-pants?”

“Because they’d be outing themselves.” He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s obvious. I don’t know if he’s arrogant or knows better.

Once we grab our snacks, we make our way to our seats. Chilled air strokes the back of my neck, and though I’m wearing my hair in a sloppy bun on top of my head, I’m glad that Ronanforced me to wear a sweater and jeans. When he saw me wearing short shorts and a tank top earlier today, he laughed. For some stupid reason, I assumed the heaters would be directed toward the audience to combat the chilly atmosphere of the ice arena.

Now, of course, I realize just how silly I was to assume without asking first.

Seated, I tear into my hotdog. “This is great!” The chilly air, the sound of skates racing against the ice, the people fixated on the players fighting over a teeny tiny puck, what’s not to like?

“Never took you for a hockey lover.”

I shrug. “Even if I’m not, Iama food, winter, scarf and sweater lover.”

“Right.” He clasps his hands together in his lap, sending a rush of urgency through my bones.Heal him, Anika.

Using humor, I continue. “A game buzzing lover, a crowd lover, a chant lover—“ Literally as I say ‘chant’ a group of college-age men holler at the top of their lungs: “Puck it in Puckerman.” Whatever that means.

Unfazed, I keep going. “I love big screens like the one over there.” I point at the gigantic television high above the ice.

He sends me a closed lip smile, before turning left and right. I’m assuming to scan the crowd, before grabbing my waist and tugging me into his wide lap. Surprised, I yelp and kick my legs out. My hotdog somehow stays in my lap. “Jumbotron,” he says.

Dazed, I say, “Huh?”

He points. “That big television up there is called a jumbotron.”

“Oh, right.” Totally knew that.

Not.

I readjust my sweater, because I’m about one innocent twist away from giving everyone nearby a peep show. Ronan watches before gently smoothing out my fabric. Warmth covers his eyes, burning me from the inside out. Suddenly, I don’t feel nearly as chilly as I did minutes ago.

Lips grazing the shell of my ear, he murmurs, “If you’re going to keep talking nonsense, you might as well sit where you can easily whisper into my ear and save these nice people from your ramblings.”

I don’t fully believe him. At least, I don’t fully believe that’s why I’m in his lap, with his arms wrapped around my stomach and his chin resting on top of my head. He’s not worried about annoying anyone. He merely wants to hold me as much as I want to hold him.

Here, he can do that. Even if there’s no one familiar to witness our affection, I still sigh in loving content.

If this is what hockey looks like with him, I’ll do it every day.

Ronan

She’s too good for me. My butterfly deserves clear skies and bright clouds. She doesn’t deserve the tornado I present in my wake.

I mean, look at the current state of my life. I’ll probably have to give my soon-to-be ex-wife alimony until my ball hairs turn grey.

Nah, I’ll have to give Carolyn alimonywell aftermy ball hairs turn grey.

To think I’ll have to explain all this to Anika.Sorry I gave my last wife every-fucking-thing, and now I’m left with store brand cereal and purchasing your lingerie at the local thrift store.

It’s not that I don’t think Anika will mind. Because she won’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that Anika Grimes deserves things like expensive champagne during Friday night dinners.

What she doesn’t deserve is hidden soirées out of state because her would-be boyfriend is too chicken shit.

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