Page 27 of Puck to the Heart
Besides, I wore enough layers to bounce right back up if I fell on my ass. Probably.
Letting out a wheezing breath, I nodded, avoiding eye contact.
“How is skating a game? Are we going to race? I feel like you being a professional would be cheating?—"
“Just…skate with me.” When Ash spoke, it was still low, barely audible, but the tone conveyed more than shouting ever would.
And I expected to lose all feeling in the cold, but his tone sent warmth right to my?—
Nowhere. Ash Wilder sent warmth right to nowhere. He was cocky and annoying, except he wasn’t any of those things right now, was he?
Shit.
I glanced toward Ash and watched him repeatedly pulling on the wrist cuff of his jacket, realizing I still had his gloves. God, his hands were so much bigger than mine. Tugging his gloves off, I smacked him in the chest with them, looking away when he stared, affronted.
Why won’t he tell me what’s wrong? Why is he still here if he’s so upset? And it’s clearly something I did, sowhyis hehere?
But Ash stayed.
Why? Why would he stay? Did he have some ulterior motive?
What was he even doing at the fair?
But we arrived at the head of the line, and even though Ash muttered aboutrentingskates, he did it, taking the battered boots with a wince from the attendant.
With a gulp, I took the pair of skates the attendant handed across the counter. Scuffs marred the leather, and creases crossed the ankles as if they’d bent and flexed a million times. Silvery blades glinted as I nearly dropped them, surprised at their weight. Laces, long and no longer white, fell over my hands, their touch barely there against fingers too stiff with cold to move.
Did I actually agree to this? I didn’t remember saying yes. Mental images from the last time I skated swirled up; dust blown off an old photograph. Like swiping a hand through fog, all my attempts to shove the memories aside did was stir them up further.
Somehow, I was twenty-eight and ten at the same time, sitting on a bench, skates in hand. Excitement trilled through one version of me, dread through the other.
God, ten years old was a lifetime ago.
My tenth year gave my life a perfect line of demarcation; before and after. Nine years, ninewholeyears. And during the tenth—when everything realigned. My first taste of the real world and how awful people could be. And how our actions always have consequences.
My dad’s face swam in my mind as I remembered that particular lesson, and I had to remind myself that he wassafe; I talked to him this morning and his nurse would call if anything happened. Recovery was going well, and his spirits were lifting, based on the number of times he ribbed me about the next time Ash would fly me out to see him.
Dad was fine, I was fine, this wasfine.
Clumsy fingers managed to unzip my winter boots, but tugging the skates on was another thing entirely. I shoved my feet in, yanking the tongue straight and jerking the laces with my stiff hands.
Oh God, oh God, what is Ash doing?
“Get up,” I hissed as Ash sank to the ground.
One large hand wrapped around my ankle, and I kicked, but I couldn’t escape his grip.
“I can lace them myself,” I snapped.
Annoyance crossed his face, but his words were soft. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. Let me help. Iama professional.”
There was no way he touched skin, not with the layers of socks and leggings, but fire lanced up my leg where his hand wrapped around my ankle. The brush of his thumb over my ankle bone sizzled where it shouldn’t.
His movements were fluid, practiced, as if he’d done it all his life, which I realized, he probably had.
He wasn’t exactly gentle, more like… smoothly efficient, and somehow it wassoattractive.
It was a testament to how tangled up my mind was, I realized, how unphased I was at the idea of Ash Wilder being sexy. Later, I would probably regret it, but for now, I would let him play distraction.
