Page 8 of The Best You've Ever Had

“That would be a firm no. I’d rather not have some image of you with oiled up abs and suspenders hanging in my living room.”

“You sure about that? It seems like you’ve really put a lot of thought into it already.”

“Doesn’t take a lot of thought when it’s a predictable behavior coming from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

Shit. I walked into that one. Now what am I supposed to do? Admit that he’s so good looking that hoards of people would pay good money to see him half-naked for one full calendar month? Denial is undoubtedly the best path forward here.

“Someone who thrives on attention.”

He gives me a smug, disbelieving look, before replying, “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’ve never made it onto one of those firefighter calendars. I’ll keep you posted if that ever changes though.” He winks, and I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t pull a muscle.

As soon as he finishes, he stands straight, and extends a hand to me. I stare at it for an awkwardly long moment before finally giving in and taking it. He hoists me off the bench with too much force, launching me straight into his body.

Grabbing my waist, he steadies me as I place my hands on his chest. For a second time tonight, we’re close. Too close. The touch of his firm body beneath my hands and the clean, pine scent of his cologne invade my senses like a punch to the gut.

With his fingers still wrapped around me, he murmurs, “Sorry, forgot that you’re miniature-sized.”

“I think you’re only supposed to call candy bars miniature-sized.”

“It also applies to you. Now come on.” Grabbing my hand, we walk to the pitiful patch of ice.

As I step onto it, I feel wobbly and unbalanced. But this should be a walk in the park seeing as I work twelve hour days in three inch heels. Sensing that I’m off balance, he doesn’t let go of my hand. And I don’t let go either. Because after nearly tripping over my own two feet, I’m now fully aware that I need to either cling to the edge of the wall, or hold his hand. Somehow his hand seems less demeaning.

He gives my palm a squeeze. “Remember to bend your knees.”

“Remind me why I agreed to do this again?”

“Because it’s fun. And if you’re going to force me not to stay cooped up at home, then I’m dragging you with me.”

“So it’s kind of like some weird, fucked up karma? Noted.”

With a smile on his face and a shake of his head, we continue to skate in circles, hand-in-hand. He’s like a tower, strong and steady, while I am stiff-legged and teetering like a baby calf walking for the first time. But with each lap, my muscle memory slowly returns. Before long, I can skate without the constant fear of toppling over.

Letting go of his hand, I put our usual distance back between us. “Thanks for not letting me bust my ass and embarrass myself out here.”

“Don’t worry, still plenty of time for that.”

I punch his shoulder, nearly losing my balance in the process, causing both of us to burst into a laugh.

“So you never told me. How's the city living?” he asks, with genuine curiosity in his eyes.

“Amazing. Besides a select few friends, absolutely no one knows me. It’s the best feeling, going from a place whereeveryone in town knows your entire life’s story, to a large city where no one gives a damn about you or your trauma. It’s a dream.”

“It sounds like it.” He sneaks glances at me as we glide along the ice. “So why do we hate each other again?”

It’s a good question. One in which I could definitively answer eleven years ago—but now, I’m not so certain.

“I don’t know actually,” I reply.

“Is that your way of saying we’re kind of friends then?” He smiles, wide and playful, and it makes my stomach flip-flop in a way it never has before.

But it must be a fluke. A one time, completely random, stomach somersault.

Because there’s no way I’d get butterflies.

Especially not for Ben Brooks.

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