Page 6 of The Pucking Date
“I was talking about you.”
I go still. He doesn’t take it back. Just watches me, waiting. But I’m not ready to go there yet, so I laugh. “You already are my most exhausting client.”
“Only ’cause you like me.”
I give him a look. “You’re not special.”
His grin spreads, lazy and sure. “Darlin’, if I’m not special, why do you smile when I say your name?”
I open my mouth to speak—something sharp, something clever—but nothing comes out. And he just keeps smiling.
Somewhere between the jazz and the chocolate and the sound of his voice wrapped around me, I forget to hold the line. It happens between a bad joke and a forkful of shared chocolate torte.
He reaches across the table, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, like he’s done it a hundred times before in some alternate universe. His eyes don’t leave mine. Not for a second. The air shifts, thickens, every molecule between us buzzing. For a breathless second, I think he’ll lean in. Taste the chocolate off my lips. But he just lets his thumb linger. Long enough to make my pulse trip. To make a point.
Then he pulls back, eyes still glued to mine, mouth tipped in that maddening almost-smile. Like he’s already kissed me. And knows damn well I’ll want more.
Outside, the night has cooled. The buzz of the city has softened. He slips his hand around my waist as we walk, low and easy. But he still doesn’t try to kiss me. Doesn’t rush or push. With every step, he shifts a little nearer, his knuckles brushing mine, his thumb catching the hem of my blouse and slipping beneath, warm against the bare skin of my hip, branding me with his touch.
As if we are already lovers.
We pass a quiet side street, the hush of the night stretching long between us. I half expect him to guide us back to the hotel. But he doesn’t. Instead, he veers left.
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though I don’t really want to stop him.
He glances at me, that disarming smile tugging at his mouth. “One more stop.”
The street narrows, curves, then opens again. The old Olympic rink. The lights are low, but on. A side entrance is propped open.
“Finn…”
He just grins. “Relax. It’s open for us.”
“You bribed someone?”
He shrugs. “I know a guy.” A beat. “I figured this was a place you’d stop running…or maybe let me catch you.”
His words are a low rolling thunderstorm growling itself into my bones. He’s not subtle or guarded—there’s no game. Just clear, unfiltered intent. And that wrecks me the most. Because I can’t help imagining how he’d claim me if I let him.
And I want to let him.
Inside it’s quiet, filled with cold air and the sharp scent of ice. He walks me toward the boards, our footsteps hollow in the empty arena. Two pairs of skates sit by the bench.
“You planned this, huh?” I chuckle, watching him strip off his jacket.
“That depends.” He leans against the boards, arms crossed. “Are you impressed yet?”
“I’m considering it.”
He steps closer. Not touching. Just invading all my air. “Come play with me, darlin’.”
Something hot and reckless snaps in my belly. There’s a sharp, sweet ache blooming between my legs, and my feet move before I can think better of it.
The chill hits the second we step onto the ice, crisp and clean, that familiar scrape of blades echoing in the quiet arena.
I step out first, gliding into a deliberate turn. Testing the edges like second nature—because it is. I grew up on blades. Skates before sneakers. Ice rinks instead of playgrounds.
Finn follows a beat slower, his eyes locked on me.
