Page 17 of On the Brink of Passion

It’s not as much height as she gets on the ice, but she still tucks her limbs in and her rotation is perfect and lovely, allowing me a text book catch but also forcing her body to slide close down mine since we have no momentum, no movement. Yep, definitely pants feelings as her small breasts end up in my face. No man should be tortured like this.

We finish off with a dramatic dip back, and I can feel her ribs heaving in the cradle of my arm. It wasn’t as strenuous physically as our usual routines, or any of our practices, but she was nervous starting out and that must have taken a toll. I ease her back up and grab her into a hug that she returns, pressing her face into my chest, and her arms sliding up my back until her hands are resting over my shoulder blades. Her breath is hot against me, and she’s not moving away, maybe even pressing herself to me, letting herself be held and for no good reason besides maybe she’s enjoying it.

I’m yanked away from cataloguing every detail of this moment by applause. What the hell? We’re in a bar, there’s no live music, who the hell are—

Oh. Right.

Given the heat I’m feeling in my face, I’ve probably turned a blaring shade of red. This is . . . not what I meant to do. The point wasn’t attention, and it wasn’t admiration. The point was to get Jubilee to have fun for a minute or two. Mission accomplished and all that, but now she’s looking around like a deer in headlights.

“We can leave now. Let’s go.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t look mad. “Wecan’t do anything. The rumors would be out of control if we left the bar after that hand in hand. You bet your ass there’d be headlines onCelebrinewsand half a dozen other places that we’re a couple, and I can’t . . . I mean, we’re not, so . . .”

Of course we’re not. Before we got to Denver we spent 80 percent of our waking hours together, and since we got here it’s more like 95 percent, plus our sleeping hours since the roommate debacle. We know each other better than any other living person, and we have sex regularly. Yeah, nothing about that says “couple.” And yet I know what she means.

I give her a squeeze, pick her up and swing her around like I’ve done after our performances. “I get it. You head home now since you’ve been asking to go, and I’ll follow in like an hour or so. No questions, no suspicions.”

There’s a hesitation as if maybe that’s not what she actually wants to do, but then she’s nodding against my shoulder. I set her down and then she reaches up and ruffles my hair. Mostly she does that to get my goat, but this time it feels like gratitude, so I’ll take it that way.

Chapter Eight

Jubilee

The walk back to the village is cold. It’s also full of drunken revelers, and my brain immediately brings Beckett to the forefront of my thoughts. Is he polishing off his beer and having another? Why should I care if he is? Why should I care, even, if he flirts with that woman who was hanging on him when I tried to tell him I was leaving? Will he dance with her, too? So what if he does?

These thoughts, they aren’t helpful. So I focus on the cold, because cold always reminds me of work, of what I’m here to do. Ice. Skates. My programs. My life. Dancing and cavorting is for other people. I need to maintain focus. Although, after this is over . . . maybe I could pick up a guy in a bar. Maybe I could meet someone new?

When I think about it, though, something constricts around my heart, tight as my skate strings. It’s been almost four years since Stephen died, and yet he’s still very much in my thoughts. Maybe moving on will be easier after this is over. After my career is over. But am I ever going to be so far removed from the skating world that I won’t feel his ghost everywhere I go?

It’s not like I have a college degree and could go be an accountant or something. No, I’d always assumed after our competitive career was over, we’d tour as part of a show, and when we’d finally worn out our welcome on that circuit, retire to teach and coach. Buy a little house, have a couple of babies and be local celebrities. When we’d first move to town, people would point at us in the grocery store. “Is that . . . ? Didn’t they used to . . . ?” But then they’d get used to us because we’d be so normal and boring, and we’d only be a novelty to tourists who passed through.

I haven’t bothered to come up with a new plan. Mostly because when I look past the SIG horizon, there’s nothing there at all. Blackness. My life is just . . . over. I fall off a cliff.

I show my ID to get in the village, and the guard waves me through with a smile. Unlike the city outside the village, inside is relatively quiet. Yes, there are masses of people moving around, but quietly. No one’s in a hurry to be that jerk who made a ruckus when everyone else was trying to rest up for their events. Not yet, especially.

Back in the suite, it feels empty without Beckett there. I should be grateful for the time alone, and the space. The lack of his . . . everything. But it’s maybe too quiet? Too empty? Like I’d expect there to be an echo if I spoke. But there’s no one here to talk to, and I’ve never been one of those people who talks to themselves.

“Until now.”

Nope, no echo. And now I’m just a weirdo who’s talking to herself. Stellar.

To distract myself, I get undressed and ready for bed, tugging on my favorite mermaid pajamas, going through my night routine, turning off the light, and settling into bed with my Kindle. I’m not actually all that interested in the book I’m reading, so it’s no surprise that I don’t remember falling asleep when the door eases open what turns out to be an hour later.

“Beckett?”

I hear him suck air through his teeth, though I can barely see him in the low light. “Sorry, I was trying really hard to be quiet. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t,” I say, even though he kind of did. But it’s not his fault. He wasn’t actually being loud. “You can turn on a light if you want.”

“No, no. I can get ready without bothering you more.”

It’s sweet of him to concern himself, though it kind of backfires when he walks into something in the dark, causing something on it to fall over, and also causing him to start cursing prolifically because he’s stubbed his toe. Oh, Beck.

“Are you sure?”

He laughs, and even in the middle of the night, I don’t feel so lonely anymore. “Apparently not. I’m—”

“You don’t need to apologize again. Are you okay?”

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