Page 7 of Waltzing on Ice

I grit my teeth. “I don’t need commentary, Finn.”

“Oh, but you do need water,” he muses, skating in close and offering me a bottle. “Hydration is key when you’ve spent the night making questionable life choices.”

I snatch the bottle from his hand and take a long sip, more out of defiance than gratitude. He watches me with amused interest, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“You sure you don’t want to lie down for a bit?” he teases. “Maybe let me carry you around the rink? I know you like it when I hold you.”

I choke on the water. “Excuse me?”

Finn smirks. “You heard me.”

I inhale sharply, refusing to engage. “Again,” I say, forcing my legs to move faster, even as exhaustion weighs them down.

Finn watches me for a moment, his usual cocky smirk softening slightly. Then, without warning, he grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him. “Let’s try something new.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“A lift.”

My stomach clenches. “We already have our lifts choreographed.”

“This one’s different.” His grip tightens, his gaze challenging. “Trust me?”

I don’t trust easily. Not on the ice, and certainly not off it. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes my breath hitch. Before I can second-guess myself, I nod.

Finn wastes no time. He grips my waist, his hands firm and sure, and in one fluid motion, he lifts me. I barely have time to react before I’m in the air, weightless, my legs extending instinctively as I arch my back.

His strength is effortless, his hold unwavering. He isn’t just lifting me—he’s holding me, supporting me, and for one terrifying, exhilarating second, I let myself feel it.

Then, just as quickly, I snap back. My body tenses. I shift too soon and Finn has to adjust to keep us balanced. When he sets me down, I stumble slightly, my heart hammering.

He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, his hands remain gripping me, his thumbs pressing lightly against my ribs right below my breasts.

“You good?” His voice is lower now, rougher.

I nod too quickly. “Fine.”

His lips twitch. “You sure? Because for a second there, you looked like you enjoyed it.”

I scoff, stepping back, but he doesn’t let me go far. He follows, keeping close, his gaze sharp and knowing.

“I mean, I get it,” he continues, his voice dropping as he leans in. “I am really good with my hands.”

I feel my face heat. “Finn—”

“You don’t have to say it,” he interrupts smoothly. “Your body tells me everything.”

I shove at his chest, but it’s a pathetic attempt, especially when he doesn’t budge. The worst part? He’s right. My body had reacted—instinctively.

That wasn’t just skating. That wasn’t just another lift. That was something else entirely.

Chapter Seven

Finn

Press events are a necessary evil. Cameras flashing, reporters fishing for drama, forced smiles all around. It’s all a game, and I usually don’t mind playing—except tonight, I’m watching Lucas Moreau pull the biggest victim act I’ve ever seen, and it’s making my blood boil.

He’s standing just a few feet away, posture casual, but his eyes flick toward Daisy every few seconds like a heartbroken ex-lover watching the woman he lost parade around with another man. It’s pathetic, and it’s working.

---