Page 16 of Melt My Heart: Denver Warlords

His expression sobered. "Nothing concrete. Trevor Davis was watching you like a hawk, but that could be his usual creepy interest. Irina seemed pretty intensely focused on you too, but that's normal for competitors."

I nodded, pondering the possibilities. "The timing of everything—right before regionals and our charity event—can't be coincidental. Someone wants to throw me off my game."

"The question is, who benefits from that?" Gunnar mused. "And how far are they willing to go?"

We paused at the exit doors, snow visible through the glass panels.

"Have dinner with me," he said suddenly. "To celebrate your win."

The invitation caught me off guard. "I don't usually celebrate mid-season. There's always more work to do."

"All the more reason to take one night off." His smile held a challenge. "Live dangerously, McKenzie. Eat something that isn't pre-measured for optimal protein content."

A laugh escaped me, surprising us both. "When you put it like that, how can I refuse?"

His eyes brightened. "Is that a yes?"

I nodded, a strange lightness replacing the tension that had gripped me for days. "That's a yes."

As we stepped into the gentle snowfall, I realized that amidst the mystery and threat, something unexpected was emerging between us—and I was surprised to find that I welcomed it.

Chapter Six

GUNNAR

The soft glow of candlelight danced across Starla's face as she studied the menu, her emerald eyes narrowed in concentration. Giordano's Trattoria—a small family-owned Italian restaurant nestled in downtown Denver—hummed with muted conversation and the occasional clink of silverware against fine china. Red brick walls adorned with black and white photos of Italy created an intimate atmosphere, while the scent of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread wrapped around us like a warm embrace.

"You're staring," she said without looking up, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I grinned, caught. "Hard not to. You clean up nice, McKenzie."

That was an understatement. She'd traded her competition attire for a simple black dress that hugged her athletic figure in all the right places. Her blonde hair, freed from its severe competition bun, fell in soft waves around her shoulders. The candlelight caught golden highlights I'd never noticed before.

"You don't look terrible yourself," she replied, finally meeting my gaze with a small smile.

I'd made an effort—dark jeans, a charcoal button-down, and a blazer I rarely wore. Even ran a comb through my perpetually disheveled hair. The way her eyes had widened slightly when I'd picked her up suggested the effort hadn't gone unnoticed.

A server approached with the bottle of Barolo I'd ordered, presenting it with practiced elegance before pouring two glasses. Starla raised an eyebrow.

"Celebrating my win with wine? I usually avoid alcohol during competition season."

"One glass won't derail your Olympic dreams," I countered. "Besides, you earned it after dealing with slashed tires, sabotaged lighting, and costume vandalism."

Her expression sobered. "When you list it all like that..."

"Hey." I reached across the table, briefly touching her hand. "Tonight is about celebrating your victory,not dwelling on the weird stuff. Tomorrow we can play detective."

She nodded, lifting her glass. "What should we toast to?"

"To unexpected collaborations," I offered, raising my own.

The corner of her mouth quirked upward. "To fire and ice."

We clinked glasses, and I watched as she took a small sip, closing her eyes briefly to savor the rich flavor. Something stirred in my chest—a peculiar warmth that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the gorgeous woman across from me.

The server returned to take our orders—tagliatelle with wild mushrooms for Starla, osso buco for me. After he departed, conversation flowed more easily than I'd expected, given her usually guarded nature.

"Your performance today was incredible," I said. "That triple-triple combination looked effortless."

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