Page 73 of Icing Hearts

“Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

He takes my wrist in hand. “Please, Clara, I need you. Clinically. I’m parched and you…” Tory reaches up with his free hand and tucks my hair behind my ear. “You are my oasis.”

He gets close and asks if it would shatter the illusion if he kissed my cheek.

“Definitely,” I tell his deep brown eyes. So he takes my hand and brings it to his lips, planting a very chaste kiss upon my knuckles.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Charity. Will you tell me a bedtime story since I can’t watch Netflix?”

“Sure, Tory. Close your eyes.” I reach out and stroke his mahogany waves until he drifts to sleep.

Chapter 44

Clara

Three days later, Tory is cleared for practice. He’s healed beautifully from his concussion and is eager to get back on the ice. But tonight, a bunch of us are hanging out at the hotel hot tub. It’s a big one. Easily large enough to fit ten people in it. That’s about the size of our group, including our goalie, Clover, Thomas, and a few players from other schools.

Then, Tory joins us.

I was so scared to see his feet. Scared they’d shatter the illusion. Not just his feet. His thighs, his butt, and anything else that isn’t appropriate for general audiences. Really, I’m scared to see anything that may potentially and permanently shatter the illusion—anything that might ruin him. Though, I was especially terrified of the feet. You see, I hate feet. And what if his looked like Frodo feet? What if he didn’t take care of them? What if they looked like fish bellies or were…dirty? My fear was for naught. Because while, as a rule, I do hate feet, I can’t find reason to hate his. Tan, well-kept, straight, even toes, nice arches. Many a man has been ruined for me because of their lowest extremities.

But alas, nothing can ruin him for me. Never has such a perfect distraction existed in all of time.

He’s a caricature. His perfections exaggerated, and his flaws nonexistent. That’s how I’ve always viewed him.

Tory looks me in the eyes as he takes off his shirt. He turns slowly to descend the stairs into the hot tub and for a moment, I’m unable to process what I’m looking at. There’s a tattoo down his spine. A newer one. I just saw his bare back…what was it? A few months ago, now?

I forget my manners and turn my head to the side, side-eyeing the quote scrawled down his back in delicate, handwritten script. There’s something so familiar about the letters.

Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.

My hand slaps over my gaping mouth. “What is that?” I shout through my fingers.

“Like it?”

Tory gives me a knowing grin that answers my real question as he takes a spot on the opposite side of the hot tub. I don’t ask. I don’t need to ask. That smile is all it takes to answer the unspoken questions.

Questions like:

Is that a temporary tattoo? No.

Is that a quote from Romeo & Juliet?

Yes.

And is it in my handwriting?

Also, yes.

Victory Amato has my favorite quote, inked down his back in my handwriting.

I don’t know how he attained the image. I guess it’s irrelevant. But we read Romeo and Juliet freshman year for the first time. But in honors British lit this year, we did an in-depth analysis right when school started. I was scrawling the quote all over the place. I’ve always loved the tragedy and promise it held.

The blue-white glowing lights of the hot tub dance across his statuesque features. They illuminate his marble jawline and high cheekbones in a way that makes me want to glide my tongue up one side and down the other.

Our group thins down to five, and Clover proposes we play Truth or Dare. Tory’s arms rest along the concrete lip surrounding the blue, up-lit hot tub. The king of his domain. A gold chain with some Catholic saint hangs from his neck. Water droplets slowly meander down his striated chest.

At the end of the game, someone asks him, and he picks truth. They ask, “What is one thing you want right now?”

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