Page 45 of As You Ice It

“But the gap in yourMean Girlsknowledge is like a whole chasm between us.”

“Mean Girlsthe musical?” Grey asks.

Parker and I both groan, which makes me laugh. “Maybe we’ll watch the best—a.k.a. the original—Mean Girlsafter our dinner,” Parker says. “For educational purposes. You’ll come, Naomi? Please?”

“I’ll need to figure out what to do with Liam,” I say. Technically, I can leave him alone at home. He’s ten. But I haven’t done so here yet. Somehow, it feels totally different doing so on Oakley Island. Not like Harvest Hollow is some hotbed of crime or anything. But still.

“I bet Camden would hang out with him,” Parker suggests.

She’s probably right, but the idea makes my stomach squirm. Not because I don’t feel comfortable leaving Liam alone with Camden. Or, at least, not because I don’t feel like Liam would besafe. More like … Liam would get ideas. More ideas than the ones already sprouting in his head.

“Text me the details and I’ll see if I can make it,” I say.

As I watch Camden giving Liam tips on his stance, I’m already stockpiling a list of excuses. Hanging out with Parker and Greyson would be fun. They’re easy to talk to, and I can see real friend potential. But I have a feeling hanging out with a bunch of women who are dating or married to hockey players may not be the best thing to help menotwant to date a hockey player.

And that’s what I want, right? Tonotwant to date Camden?

Watching him patiently help Liam back to his feet has me questioning my reasons for trying to keep distance between us.

“I know!” Parker says, bouncing in her seat. “We’ll come over and do a housewarming party. Everyone can bring something. That way you don’t need a babysitter.”

“Ooh! That sounds fun,” Greyson says. “I love shopping for house stuff! What’s your style? What do you need?”

“Um, I don’t actually?—”

“Just let us know which night is best for you,” Parker says, and there is no room for argument in her tone. She and Greyson stare expectantly at me while on the ice, Liam is throwing his arms around Camden, celebrating some success I missed while trying to come up with a reason I’m busy every night next week or why I’m trying to avoid hanging out with potential new friends.

Camden looks up, and his eyes lock with mine over Liam’s head. A tremor moves through me as his gaze sears right to my heart. Liam turns with as big a smile as I’ve ever seen, Camden’s arm still casually draped over my son’s shoulders.

I can practically feel the breeze stirring my hair as I wave my white flag. “Tuesday night,” I say meekly. “That will work.”

“Perfect. Their next game is Monday, so we’ll have Tuesday night off,” Parker says. “Ooh—do you want to come to the game? I can get you tickets.”

“I … no. Maybe next time.” Liam would love it, but I need to have some safe, non-hockey space in my life. Especially since I still don’t know what the deal is with Camden, and now this dinner has been foisted upon me. At this point, trying to say no to Parker seems like an exercise in futility.

“I’ll text you,” Parker says.

“Add her to the group chat,” Greyson says.

“I don’t have to be an official WAG to get in the group chat?” I ask dryly.

“Eh. It’s not a WAG chat.” Parker gives me a quick grin, which might be characterized as evil. “And anyway, I don’t think you’ll beunofficialfor long. See ya!”

I’m about to argue or maybe demand she tell me why she thinks that when Parker and Greyson dart away. The kids are clearing the ice with Liam somewhere in the crowd of kids in helmets and skates. I scan to find him but get distracted when I see Camden standing on the other side of the glass in front of me. He waves me toward a different exit area of the rink. I don’t understand why until I get closer. There’s no plexiglass between us now, and I’m able to lean over a railing and talk to him.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Liam’s fine,” he says, clearly reading that my son is my primary concern.

Then he puts his hand over mine on the railing. I go completely still—a rabbit caught in a very tempting snare.

His hand is warm, his fingers curling around my hand in a way that’s both comforting and possessive. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay.” I sound as breathy as a teenager getting her first phone call from a boy. Then I remember how I stared at my phone for two weeks, watching itnotlight up. “You still have my number. There was plenty of time to talk to me over the last two weeks.”

“I was thinking,” he says.

I wait.

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