Page 86 of Someone to Have
My heart jumpsat the familiar knock that comes just after I’ve ended the call with Sloane, the same way it has every time Eric shows up at my door. Sloane might know the truth of how deep I'm in, but Eric can't know. I'm not brave enough for that yet.
I open the door and smile. He’s still wearing his wool cap but has taken off the rest of his layers and stands there in a T-shirt and a pair of long underwear.
It should be a crime to look that good in long undies.
“Are you heading out again?” His smile fades as his gaze travels down my body. Other than my boots, mittens, and hat, I’m still fully dressed.
“Sloane FaceTimed, so I haven’t gotten undressed yet, but I need to.”
He steps closer, his body deliciously firm against the spots where mine is soft. “As much as I’d like to help,” he says with a grin, “I have other plans for you this afternoon.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
He pulls back, leaning down to pick up something from the hallway. He holds up a pair of bright white ice skates. “Did you know Mrs. Simon was a figure skater backin the day?”
I feel my mouth drop open. “I did not.”
“She let me borrow these. She said you two wear the same size shoe. Rhett and Mike are hunkered down with a timer—twenty minutes of game tape earns them thirty minutes of video games. You and I are going ice skating.”
My heart plummets to my feet as I shake my head. “I'm not good on the ice.”
“Have you given it a real try?”
“I'm Marty Maxwell's daughter. Of course, I tried. I can stay upright. I'm just...not good.”
“I won't let you fall,” he vows, and the look on his face is so hopeful, I can't say no. I don'twantto say no. To any of it.
“Promise?” I whisper, and he leans in to kiss me. Even though I'm sure it's only in my imagination, the weight of his lips on mine feels like a vow.
He pulls back slightly. “Promise.”
“Then lead on?—”
I start to call him coach but stop myself. Because suddenly that nickname feels as inappropriate as the manwhore with a heart tagline. This isn't about confidence or my bucket list or prepping me for dating other guys, and I don't want to pretend it is.
“Lead on, Eric.”
That might be the first time I've called him by his name outside of screaming it in the bedroom. The way his eyes go dark, I wonder if it means something to him. I want to believe it does, because it means something to me.
I grab my hat and mittens from where they're draped over the back of a kitchen chair, then shove my feet back into my boots by the door. The apartment feels too warm now, the radiator clanking and hissing in the corner like it's protesting our departure. Eric waits while I wrap my scarf around my neck, his hands already in his jacket pockets, keys jingling softly.
The hallway echoes with our footsteps, the worn carpet muffling the sound only slightly. Outside, thesnow is falling heavier now. Eric brushes off the truck’s windshield with his sleeve before we climb in. He lets the engine idle for a moment while the heater kicks in. The drive to the rink takes us through the quiet residential streets then into the more industrial area outside the town limits.
“You nervous?” he asks as we turn onto the main road that leads to the sports complex.
“Always,” I admit, watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Good or bad nerves?”
“Both, I think.”
When we pull up to the ice rink, the parking lot is empty. The snow is still coming down, but since the roads are nearly deserted, we didn't have any trouble getting here. The building looms in front of us, utilitarian in the way community sports centers often are.
“Are you sure this is okay?”
“Your brother gave me the keys, and I texted him to say I'd be stopping by.”
I arch a brow. “With me?”
