Page 8 of Waiting Game

“I’m sorry.” A breath whistles from him. “On all fronts.”

“You don’t have to be. It was a long time ago.” I elbow him in the side. “I should be the one who’s sorry. I guess you didn’t expect that answer, huh?”

“Definitely not.” He shakes his head. “So, Chuck’s your only family?”

“Yeah. I’m all alone now.” My mouth quivers. “God, that hurts.”

“It does.” Surprising me, he snags a hold of my hand. “You don’t know me, Mia, and maybe we’ll never know each other more than what these lessons will permit, but you’ll get through this.

“It’ll suck. It’ll hurt. Some days, you won’t want to leave your bed, and others, you’ll be hyper as you try to get through the hours without thinking of those you’ve lost, but you’ll do it.

“And if figure skating is what’ll help, both with your finances and mental health, then sign me up for an intensive training course.”

The generous offer has me frowning. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I need you to teach me how to be graceful on the ice and I’ve figured out what I want.”

“Hit me with it.”

“You heard of Torvill and Dean?”

My gaze turns distant as I search in my memory for the names. “They won the gold medal for Great Britain in the 80s?”

The reference is so specific that it makes me want to laugh. But then, there’s something about Cole that’s like that.

Heisoddly specific.

It’s in this shit about wanting to ‘maintain an open dialogue.’

Maybe reading romance has trained him in how to be a decent human being?

“I remember them. Vaguely. They skated theBoléro, I think. Not that that narrows it down. Do you know how common?—”

“Wait!” His eyes light up. “That’s them!”

“My claim to fame is I’m a classical music buff,” I joke. “Always used symphonies for my routines. I’m the woman you need on your trivia team.”

“Good to know,” he teases.

“Back when I was competing, I researched all previous Olympic wins, too, so you’re lucky it registers on my radar, but what about them?” I inquire, shoving my sleeves up.

I can’t help but notice that he stares at the cat tattoo on my forearm.

This sleeve depicts two of my cats, Curtis and Chloe, fleeing a tarot card when their tower falls apart after another member of my clowder dive-bombs it.

The whole background of the card appears to explode, leaving a part of it blank while the rest cascades over my forearm. ‘The rest’ includes furnishings and the culprit behind the attack—this one being bright white with a black nose—Cubert.

So named because of my uncle’s obsession with the arcade gameQ*bert.

Distracted as he scans my ink, he tells me, “I want to do that.”

“Do what?” I ask, oddly aware of him thanks to his awareness of me.

Through my grief, it suddenly registers that he’s a handsome man.

Mostly, his pictures on the Google search were of him helmeted uporwith atrocious hair.

He must have had a cut recently because, um, yeah. I don’t need to be thinking about his attractiveness.

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