Page 20 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

"What are you thinking?" she murmured against my skin.

I considered deflecting with humor, my usual defense. Instead, I found myself offering truth. "That I've spent my life seeking the next adrenaline rush—the nextrace, the next win, the next fleeting connection. Always moving, never still enough to feel the emptiness."

She propped herself up on one elbow, studying my face in the moonlight. "And now?"

"Now I'm wondering what it would be like to stop running." My fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. "To build something that lasts."

Vulnerability flickered across her features. "That sounds suspiciously like a plan, Hayes. I thought you were all about improvisation."

"Maybe I'm learning the value of structure," I said softly. "From a very demanding teacher."

Her laugh vibrated against my chest, the sound more precious for its rarity. She settled back into my arms, her body warm against mine, and for the first time in years, I felt no urge to flee. No restless anxiety pushing me toward the next distraction.

Instead, I found myself hoping the night would stretch endlessly before us, giving me time to memorize every detail of this moment. The rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her head on my shoulder. The scent of her hair mingled with the lingering notes of her perfume.

Tonight, we were insulated from the world and its dangers. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—the charity exhibition, the ongoing mystery of who might be targeting Starla, the complications of merging our very different lives.

But for now, wrapped in moonlight and each other's arms, we had found a perfect harmony that neither of ushad anticipated. And I, who had spent a lifetime in motion, found myself wanting nothing more than to remain exactly where I was.

Chapter Seven

STARLA

Morning light spilled across the polished surface of the Denver Ice Arena, illuminating microscopic crystals that sparkled like diamond dust. I glided through my warm-up routine, feeling a lightness in my movements that had nothing to do with physical conditioning and everything to do with the dark-haired speed skater practicing power crossovers along the perimeter. Every few laps, Gunnar's eyes would find mine, his smile igniting a flutter beneath my ribs that I'd stopped trying to suppress.

Six weeks ago, I would have scoffed at the notion of developing feelings for someone like him—impulsive, boundary-pushing, deliberately provocative. Now I couldn't imagine my days without his challenging presence, his unexpected tenderness, the way he'd somehow slipped past defenses I'd spent a lifetime constructing.

"Focus, Starla," Vivian called from the sidelines, clipboard clutched to her chest. "Your free leg is dropping on the spiral sequence."

I corrected immediately, extending through my instep, chin lifted. The charity event loomed less than twenty-four hours away, our final dress rehearsal a culmination of weeks of relentless practice and gradual transformation. What had begun as a publicity obligation had evolved into something extraordinary—a routine that showcased both our strengths while transcending our individual styles.

Gunnar completed his circuit and slowed near me, spraying a fine mist of ice as he stopped. "Ready for the run-through? Luis wants to check the lighting cues with the full performance."

Luis Ruiz, the production’s choreographer, stood with the technical director near the sound booth, gesturing animatedly about spotlight positioning. The arena had been transformed for tomorrow's gala—elegant banners suspended from the rafters, a specially constructed platform for the Olympic Committee members and sponsors, and professional lighting that would elevate our exhibition beyond typical practice conditions.

I nodded, taking a deep breath to center myself. "Let's show them what fire and ice can do together."

His grin widened, that familiar spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. "That's my girl."

My girl.The casual endearment sent a ridiculous thrill through me. After our night together following the restaurant disaster with Cassidy, something fundamental had shifted between us. We hadn't discussed labels or future plans—both of us were too focused on the immediate challenges of the exhibition and the mysterious threats—but the intimacy lingering in his touch, his gaze, spoke volumes.

We took our starting positions as Luis signaled the sound technician. The opening notes filled the arena—haunting piano giving way to a driving beat that somehow captured our contrasting energies. Muscle memory took over as I flowed through the choreography, each movement precise yet infused with newfound emotional depth.

Gunnar and I circled each other, our paths intertwining in a dance of approach and retreat, tension and release. When his hands clasped my waist for our first lift, I trusted him completely, surrendering to the momentum as he raised me overhead. My body arced into a perfect position, arms extended, before he lowered me in a controlled descent that transitioned seamlessly into side-by-side spins.

Throughout the routine, I remained acutely aware of him—his power, his presence, the extraordinary way he'd adapted his speed skating techniques to complement my classically trained movements. The program built to acrescendo as we executed a death spiral, my body hovering inches above the ice as he anchored me, our joined hands the only connection preventing me from falling.

For our finale, we merged into a paired spin that evolved from cautious synchronicity to breathtaking speed, breaking apart at the last moment to strike mirror-image ending poses—his aggressive and powerful, mine elegant and precise, yet somehow creating perfect harmony together.

Silence hung in the air for three heartbeats before Luis erupted into enthusiastic applause, joined by the small crew of technicians and arena staff who'd paused their preparations to watch.

"Magnificent!" Luis exclaimed, hurrying onto the ice. "The technical complexity infused with the dance of the heart—it's exactly what I envisioned!"

Vivian's approval came in the form of a single nod, though I detected the slightest softening around her eyes. "The transitions in the middle section have improved significantly. The committee will be impressed."

Hank Wells, Gunnar's coach, offered a gruff thumbs-up from his position near the boards. I'd come to recognize this as his equivalent of ecstatic praise.

Gunnar skated to my side, his breathing slightly elevated from exertion. "Told you we'd nail it."

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