Page 72 of On a Fault Line

“Ooff!” I call out, as my knees and palms hit the ice. It’s the fourth time I’ve fallen, and the dampness is soaking into my jeans. “It’s these new skates.” I examine the birthday gift that the girls got me, wondering if my laces aren’t tight enough. “Maybe I just need to get used to them.”

“Or it’s your coordination,” Collins counters with a laugh, basically doing donuts around me.

“I’m not a tree. Move along,” I say.

“There’s nothing wrong with marking my territory.”

I glare at him. He’s not even trying to help me up. I mean, I’m sure he would if I asked, but I’m not asking that smug man for a thing right now. And he better not pee on me. I am already so bitter that he’s basically good at everything. Sure, he gave me the whole, “I’ve only ice skated once or twice,” garbage, but he basically hit the ice doing twirly things and has the grace of a swan.

So annoying!

It’s when I’m struggling to get upright that I feel myself being tossed airborne. With a smirk that seems to be permanently etched onto his face, Collins places me back onto the ice and tugs me along with his hand, as we skate to some boy band throwback song.

We stay connected like this as the song fades into another.

And another.

And another.

A coating of sweat lines my face as my lungs pant for air. I didn’t realize how fast we were skating until we stop and move off the ice for a bench break.

“Yes, my comfort zone.”

Collins looks at me and shakes his head. “You might need those little kid walkers on wheels.”

“I’d still manage to fall with one.”

He thinks about it for a few seconds. “Yeah, most definitely.”

“Hey! I’m just in awe that I didn’t manage to knock us both down.” I nudge him with my elbow. “I’m talented like that.”

Collins smiles, looking like he barely broke a sweat. His body fills out a gray-and-black striped sweater, and I can’t help but notice how buff it makes him look. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Cotton candy!”

“Any—”

“And caramel apples!”

“Do you?—”

“Maybe nachos?” I shake my head. “No, I want popcorn. I love popcorn with the fake butter sauce that still tastes sort of like butter. Yeah, that. I want that.”

Collins looks like he wants to say more but resists. He knows when I get this excited and passionate that he’s at the mercy of my munchies.

“Junk food is my jam,” I say softly. “We can share.”

His eyes darken, sending a shiver down my spine.

Now that my body has had a chance to cool down, I watch as Collins stands up and walks toward the concession stand.

After several minutes, Collins returns with an empty calorie buffet tray of goodies. We both dig in.

I dunk a tortilla chip in the processed cheese dip, savoring the synthetic taste. “These are so good.”

“I’m glad.”

His eyes follow my every movement, making the butterflies in my stomach grow anxious. I never really cared if a man watched me eat before, and now I suddenly am conscious of how unladylike I must look as I shovel in chips oozing with cheese dip one at a time.

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