Page 105 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

Chapter Fifteen

G eorgia

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I say, flashing Ripley a smile so sweet that it might give him a toothache—just in case.

I’m flustered from the traffic on the way to the skating rink, nervous about skating, and I’m not sure if I have cameras aimed at my face.

I tried to get in character on the drive over, but an old man flipped me off while we were going over the bridge, and my character went from girl falling in love to girl on the verge of road rage .

I told Sutton I wasn’t the kind of girl you put on television. She should’ve believed me.

Ripley shoves off the half-wall in front of the skating rink in a pair of black joggers and a gray hoodie. A black bag is slung over his shoulder.

“Are you recording this?” he asks.

“Do you see a camera?”

He narrows his eyes.

“Are you?” I ask.

“Nope.”

My smile disappears. “Then, you know what, I’m not sorry for keeping you waiting. Shit happens. It’s not my fault.”

“Actually, it is your fault. If you had let me pick you up, I wouldn’t have been standing here for the past twenty-seven minutes.”

“Oh, did you learn to tell time?” I tease. “It’s a little late in life, but I’m so proud of you.”

“The irony of the person who was late mocking the person who was on time is rich.”

“Whatever.”

We stop at the entrance to the rink. People walk by and around us, moving through their day. I glance inside, a bubble of excitement rising in my stomach.

“When was the last time you skated?” Ripley asks.

“Actually, this will be my first time.”

He stops fiddling with his bag and looks up, confused. “Seriously?”

“It’s not like riding a bike. Not everyone ice-skates.”

“Huh.”

“What?” I ask, my brows tugging together. “What’s that huh about?”

“I swore I remembered you said you were going skating our senior year at Christmastime. A bunch of us were going caroling for extra credit, and you couldn’t go because you were going skating.” He shrugs. “Guess I got my people mixed up.”

My shoulders fall as I stare at him. How the hell did he remember that? I didn’t even remember that until now.

“No, you’re right,” I say in disbelief, clutching the hoodie I brought as instructed. “It was me. I just didn’t go.”

He waits as if he knows there’s a story, and he’s giving me time to share it. Maybe he senses that I need a moment to process the hidden memory. But when it becomes clear I’m not delving into that particular holiday tale—ever, if I can help it—he clears his throat.

“Myla contacted the rink and had cameras configured before we got here,” he says. “There won’t be audio, though, until we turn on our audio packs. I have them in my bag.”

“Got it. Remind me where we left off the other night,” I say. “So we can keep the vibe nice and steady.”

He flashes me a killer grin. “You thought I was the hottest guy you’ve ever seen and couldn’t wait to see me again.”

“And you were clearly smitten with me and practically begged to take me out one more time.”

“You begged to go home with me, but I refused. I’m just not that kind of guy.”

I gasp. “You like men?”

“ Right .” He shakes his head, amused. “Are you ready to do this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He unceremoniously slings open the door to the rink, and as I step inside, a blast of cold air smacks me in the face.

The rink smells odd, kind of like frozen sweat.

“Do you know what’s truly ironic?” I ask, sliding my hoodie over my body.

“Probably not.”

“The devil just took me somewhere freezing. Who would’ve thought?”

He groans, ignoring my laughter, and leads me to a long bar extending along a wall. A blond man smiles at us, mostly me, from the other side of the counter. Good grief .

Ripley frowns, his eyes hardening as he introduces himself to the man and explains why we’re here.

Billy, as his name tag reads, provides a rundown of the next two hours that I have the luxury of spending with Ripley.

Not. It’s not lost on Ripley or me that Billy keeps watching me out of the corner of his eye.

As the seconds tick by, and Billy seems more and more interested in talking to me than Ripley, my date starts to grow annoyed.

“We’re on video,” I whisper just loud enough for Ripley to hear.

Ripley’s jaw pulses. He slides an arm casually around my waist, his gaze locked on Billy.

I gasp as Ripley’s fingers sink deep enough into my side so I’m aware of the pressure through my two layers of clothes. It’s a subtle yet intentional move, which isn’t lost on me … or Billy.

Billy reads between the thin lines, takes our skate sizes, and disappears through a doorway behind him.

I’m frozen in place, tucked against Ripley’s solid frame and enveloped in the spicy air surrounding him. My God.

The only movement he makes is to peer down at me with an uneasy yet unapologetic look in his eyes.

I press a hand against Ripley’s abs and swivel to face him. My throat is tight. My body hums. And, by the growing humor in his baby blues, I’m pretty sure he knows all of that.

“Was that necessary?” I ask, my heart pounding.

He grins mischievously. “If you hate it so much, step away from me.”

His voice is low and smooth. It’s a dare, a goad. It’s a test to see who will win our battle of the wills. He’s snapped into character quicker than I have.

Get yourself together.

Thankfully, Billy reappears with our skates before I have to respond. We thank him, take the skates, and silently move to a bench near the ice.

My head is spinning. I can’t make sense of my reaction to his touch.

I knew it would happen eventually, and I’ve been mentally preparing for it—practicing how cool I’d be when the time came.

But it came out of nowhere, with absolutely no warning.

His arm wrapped around the small of my back, his fingers splaying against my hip.

I didn’t have time to remind myself to brace for impact.

Dammit.

Ripley tosses a bag beside him and sits. I sit, too, leaving enough space between us so I can’t use my skates as a weapon.

“I’m happy to sit and watch you,” I say, placing my purse next to me. “You can have all the attention on you. We know how much you love that.”

“You’re skating.”

“I’m not much of a skater,” I say.

“You are today.” He slips off his sneakers and starts putting his skates on. “We have to start filming at some point, so let me know when you want to be nice.”

“To you? Never.” I slip off my shoes. “It’s so draining.”

He laces up his last skate while I fumble with mine. “You signed the contract.”

That I did.

I finish my skates and sit up. Ripley hands me an audio pack. We work quickly to attach them to our backs like the crew showed us at Canoodle.

“Smile at me,” I say, straightening my hoodie.

He looks up, puzzled. “Why?”

“I want there to be photographic evidence that you think I’m funny.”

“We can’t lie to the people, Peaches,” he says.

I laugh, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “The fact that we’re here is lying to the people. And if I don’t punch you in the face for calling me Peaches, that’ll also be disingenuous.”

“Why do you hate it so much?”

I tap my skates against the ground. “You don’t think I’ve lived with Georgia Peach jokes my entire life?”

He smirks, making a show of turning on his mic. “I was referring to your ass, not the state.”

My jaw hangs open, much to his amusement.

“I brought you a pair of gloves,” he says, handing them to me. “It’s impossible to have fun with cold fingers.”

“That’s what she said.”

He laughs and shakes his head. Actor Ripley is back. “You just never know what you’re going to say.”

“It’s a part of my charm.”

“Something like that. Are you ready to get on the ice?”

I glance out over the skating surface. “I’m nervous.”

“You haven’t skated before?”

I start to remind him that I just told him that, but then I remember that the studio audience won’t know we went to high school together. Still, I see the question in his eyes—the curiosity about why I didn’t go way back then. If I don’t answer now, I’ll look suspicious.

Besides, who cares? I can say it, and we can move on. It’ll probably get edited out, anyway.

“I was supposed to one year,” I say, putting on the gloves. “Dad had planned an entire outing for Christmas—a trip to a ski slope, ice-skating, a sleigh ride. I was so freaking excited and told everyone about it. As you know.”

Pain hits my chest at the memory, making me wince.

Ripley shifts from one foot to the other as he listens.

“A couple of days before we were set to leave, he got the bill for my tuition at Waltham Prep, and he went crazy. He called me like it was my choice to go there and screamed at me for ten straight minutes while I sobbed.” I inhale a long breath.

“Needless to say, we didn’t go on our trip. And I never heard from him again.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

My cheeks are pink, and I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or the way he’s looking at me. His concern is genuine, and it wallops me right in the chest.

Why am I so emotional today? I must be starting my period.

“If I know anything in life, I know all about asshole fathers,” he says softly. “I’m sorry he did that to you. If he was capable of that, you are better off without him.”

Tears fill my eyes, clouding my vision.

He’s not wrong, and to make matters worse, he now knows about my mom and his dad, yet another way his father fucked his family.

I hope he realizes he’s better off without his father being a part of his life, too.

“Dammit, Ripley. You aren’t supposed to make me cry.”

He chuckles.

“Say something mean,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “Add a jab. Something.”

He pulls me to my feet. “You’ll probably fall out there, and I’ll laugh at you. Does that help?”

I move to punch him, but my balance gets wonky, and I teeter on the thin blades of the skates. I yelp, grabbing his forearms and steadying myself.

“Don’t forget we’re on camera,” he whispers in my ear. “Now, come on. Let’s get out there and skate.”