Page 33 of On the Brink of Passion

That whole second part, I don’t care so much about. If this happened twice, there’s no way in hell I’d try for a third. Nor would I probably be able to find a man willing to skate with me after what had happened to my former partners. I would clearly be cursed.

Yes, I forced him to not throw the free skate, because doing that solely to be with the person you may or may not love, but you’re not totally sure because you haven’t had the chance to be together outside of the SIG snow globe, or outside this bizarre arrangement, would be flat-out idiotic. But now that it’s come to pass, now that I’m treading that familiar road that leads to heartbreak . . . I regret it.

I’d make the same decision now, though, so how sorry can I possibly be? I am, though. Sorry for Beckett and how he must have felt coming back to an empty room. Sorry for myself because I can’t get past my worst fear to let myself have someone I very possibly love. And who is also as good in bed as he ever claimed to be. Jerk. I don’t even know if I can bring myself to skate with him anymore. To see him, and want him, and know he wants me too? To be the person who looks happiness in the face and says, “No thanks, I’m good being paranoid and miserable,” not just once but every day.

I need a break. I’m glad we’re not scheduled for the exhibition because I don’t think I could take it. Yes, I will show up for all of our press obligations, all of our sponsorship and endorsement meetings. Since Daphne reported Sabrina to the SIG organizers and they found a blade hidden in her skate bag and Todd sang like a canary when they questioned him, we’ve had even more attention than the usual gold medal flutter. I would know.

It’s one of the biggest scandals to rock figure skating, and once they’ve gone through all the formal procedures, it’s likely Sabrina will be banned from the SIGs, and also the international tournaments that are used as feeders. In short, her competitive career will be over. I try to feel some kind of sympathy for her, but I don’t. I do try to keep my responses in interviews measured, and Beckett’s the same because he was—is—livid.

While I’d go home and sit on my couch for a week if I could, that’s not an option. I will pose for pictures, wave my hands, sign anything people throw at me, and march in the closing ceremony, but I’m going to do it all without giving in to my urges where Beckett is concerned.

There’s a knock on the door of the bathroom where I’ve been hiding for the better part of a half hour.

“Jubilee, you okay?”

Aside from my ass going numb from sitting on the cold, hard tile? “Yep, I’m fine. Be out in a sec.”

When I’d showed up last night at Daphne’s hotel room door with all my shit, she’d been surprised, but she hadn’t turned me away. I’ll be sleeping on her floor until we leave. It’s not comfortable, but it’s a hell of a lot less painful than having to share space and air with Beckett. He’d be charming, and persuasive, and good at banging, and I am a total badass, but still . . . there’s only so much one girl can be expected to take. That would be beyond the call of duty.

“Cool. We should leave in about five minutes. Don’t want to be late for theHour 25interview.”

No, we don’t. We would like to not go at all, but that not being an option . . . I push up from the floor, dust off the seat of my pants, and get my smile on before I swing open the door.

Daphne takes one look at me and wrinkles her nose. “Save it for the cameras, Buford, I know you better than that.”

Thank god, because my face was about to break alongside my heart.

Beckett

It’s been five days since Jubilee cleared out of our suite. Five days of seeing her for precious minutes before interviews and other obligations, having to watch her out of the corner of my eye and wonder how she’s doing while she’s putting on a mask for the people we’re talking to. Five fucking days of driving myself crazy, asking if there’s something else I could’ve done to make this turn out differently.

What I was willing to do, she wouldn’t allow, and now that I’ve had more time to think about it, I wouldn’t have wanted to do it either. Talk about cause for resentment. Even if we ended up together, would we always wonder . . .

Right now, I’m sitting under hot lights in the studio the TV channel’s thrown up like a pup tent, sweating my ass off. I feel like the makeup they applied must be dripping off my face. Jubilee of course, looks perfect. Sounds perfect, smiles perfectly, and I want to strip her bare of all that and make her tell me the truth. That yes, she wants me but she can’t do anything about it because she’s scared. That’s why she’s running away.

Every time we’ve been together, she’s either scurried off before I could get a second or she’s given me the frozen perfect doll act. I don’t like it at all, and I can’t crack her. Or haven’t yet. I will, because I don’t give up. Not on the ice, and not when it’s come to anything else I’ve really wanted. Although what have I wanted more than I’ve wanted to skate and win a gold at the SIGs? What have I wanted more than I’ve wanted Jubilee Buford back in my arms, back in my bed? Whatever it is, it’s running a distant third.

This time, though, I’ve got a plan. The closing ceremony is over, we’ve had our last official interview—in Denver, anyhow; we’ll probably have to go on morning shows or something in the coming weeks—so she’s got no place to rush off to.

After we’ve wrapped another typical talk and the crew has stripped us of our microphones and other sound equipment, I run after Jubilee where she’s escaped off to a wing of the makeshift studio space. It’s a little hard on my ego that I have to run to keep up with her. She’s booking it but not looking like she’s trying to. It’s possible I should take the hint and leave her alone, but no one’s ever accused me taking a hint. Nope, pretty well have to spell shit out for me. And to be honest, probably have to do it twice, because I’m not the best speller.

It’s dark in the hallway, narrower than I’d expect, but you learn pretty quick the only things that are glitz and glam on TV are the things they want you to see. Everything else is much more . . . functional. Plywood and linoleum and wires everywhere. This is where I’m going to try to talk a woman into loving me. Or, I’m hoping, admitting that she already does.

“Jubilee, wait.”

She doesn’t, but now I’m close enough to take hold of her arm. She’s really fucking strong, and can kick my ass at a lot of things, but brute strength isn’t one of them. I feel like kind of a brute, too, as I grab her, but I’m at a loss. I need to talk to her, and I don’t know how else to make that happen.

As soon as I’ve got my hand wrapped around her biceps, she turns on me, whipping around so fast, her hair turns into a dark spiral. “Let go of me, Beckett.”

There’s sickness burbling in my stomach, because I don’t like this either. I’m not that guy. I drop my grip, a prayer in my heart that she’s not going to run now that I’m not holding her fast. She doesn’t, though, just stands there, glaring at me and breathing hard.

“What do you want?”

Especially when we first started training together, Jubilee had a sharp tongue. I’ve gotten used to it, and when she realized it wouldn’t scare me away, she toned it down. Yes, she still says some shit, but so do I. It’s how we’re wired: to be competitive, to be harsh in the name of getting what we want so fucking badly. This, though, is different, and it slices at my heart.

“I want to talk to you.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and stands there with her hip cocked, glaring at me with hard eyes. “Well that’s too fucking bad because I don’t want to talk to you.”

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