Page 77 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Hey!” a loud voice booms. “Knock that shit off!”

The roaring demand snaps us out of our stupor, and Austin jumps out of my lap, her hands flying to the steering wheel as if to make it seem like nothing inappropriate was happening. My arms drop back to my sides, though I can’t wipe the sheepish grin off my face.

George stands at the edge of the rink, hands on his hips, his glare cutting through the distance.

“I said twenty minutes—I didn’t say ‘turn this ride into soft porn!,’” he hollers, his voice echoing off the empty seats around us. “Get down from there, we have cameras everywhere you fucking moron.”

He’s grumbling as he ambles forward, determined.

“Oh shit. He looks pissed,” I muse, cutting the Zamboni’s engine and standing. “Party’s over.”

Though myhard-onisn’t.

One at a time, we climb down off the machine and George averts his eyes as Austin adjusts her dress; tugging the neckline, pulling down the hem so it covers her thighs.

George grumbles under his breath as he trudges toward us, keys jangling against his hip, each step punctuated by an overdramatic huff.

“I should’ve known better,” he gripes, stopping just short of the Zamboni. “Young people can’t keep your hormones in check for even five minutes. The ice is sacred! You wanna paw each other like that, rent a goddamn motel room.”

Honestly I’m flattered he considers me young people.

Austin, cheeks flaming, ducks her head and adjusts her dress again, the movement quick and flustered. She tugs the necklinehigher, muttering something under her breath that sounds like,"Never wearing this again."

“Sorry, George,” she says, trying to smooth over his ruffled feathers. Her voice is soft, sweet—and entirelyunconvincing.

She’s adorable when she’s embarrassed.

“Don’t ‘sorry’ me,” George snaps, pointing a gnarled finger at me. “You. I trusted you with this.”

“Technically,” I say, stepping forward, hands raised in a gesture of innocence. “You trusted me with theZamboni.”

“You think you’re clever?” He huffs again, his face turning a shade darker. “I don’t care what you call it, just get the hell off my ice before I call security. And next time you’re feeling frisky, take it to a parking lot.”

The parking lot?

Er. He obviously knows jack shit about women if that’s what he considers a romantic gesture.

We walk in silence for a few moments, the sound of her heels clicking softly against the concrete floor. When we reach the hallway leading to the private entrance, she bursts into laughter, her shoulders shaking as she clutches her stomach.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe that just happened. I’m dying, give me a minute,” Austin wheezes, barely able to catch a breath.

I lean against the wall to watch, crossing my arms as she does her darndest to compose herself.

It’s not working.

Her laughter echoes through the empty corridor, bouncing off the cinder block walls.

“Think he’ll let us drive the Zamboni again?” I ask, deadpan.

Austin’s laughter somehow manages to kick up a notch, and she starts gasping for air between the peals.

“Stop. Stop making jokes,” she chokes out, waving a hand at me. “I’m going to pee my pants, I swear.”

I wait her out.

When she finally straightens, her face is flushed and hermascara is smudged from the tears rolling down her cheeks but she doesn’t seem to care.

Her smile hasn’t dimmed—not even a little—and she looks up at me, eyes sparkling and full of mischief.

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