Page 6
GUNNAR
The soft glow of candlelight danced across Starla's face as she studied the menu, her emerald eyes narrowed in concentration. Giordano's Trattoria—a small family-owned Italian restaurant nestled in downtown Denver—hummed with muted conversation and the occasional clink of silverware against fine china. Red brick walls adorned with black and white photos of Italy created an intimate atmosphere, while the scent of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread wrapped around us like a warm embrace.
"You're staring," she said without looking up, a hint of amusement in her voice.
I grinned, caught. "Hard not to. You clean up nice, McKenzie."
That was an understatement. She'd traded her competition attire for a simple black dress that hugged her athletic figure in all the right places. Her blonde hair, freed from its severe competition bun, fell in soft waves around her shoulders. The candlelight caught golden highlights I'd never noticed before.
"You don't look terrible yourself," she replied, finally meeting my gaze with a small smile.
I'd made an effort—dark jeans, a charcoal button-down, and a blazer I rarely wore. Even ran a comb through my perpetually disheveled hair. The way her eyes had widened slightly when I'd picked her up suggested the effort hadn't gone unnoticed.
A server approached with the bottle of Barolo I'd ordered, presenting it with practiced elegance before pouring two glasses. Starla raised an eyebrow.
"Celebrating my win with wine? I usually avoid alcohol during competition season."
"One glass won't derail your Olympic dreams," I countered. "Besides, you earned it after dealing with slashed tires, sabotaged lighting, and costume vandalism."
Her expression sobered. "When you list it all like that..."
"Hey." I reached across the table, briefly touching her hand. "Tonight is about celebrating your victory, not dwelling on the weird stuff. Tomorrow we can play detective."
She nodded, lifting her glass. "What should we toast to?"
"To unexpected collaborations," I offered, raising my own.
The corner of her mouth quirked upward. "To fire and ice."
We clinked glasses, and I watched as she took a small sip, closing her eyes briefly to savor the rich flavor. Something stirred in my chest—a peculiar warmth that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the gorgeous woman across from me.
The server returned to take our orders—tagliatelle with wild mushrooms for Starla, osso buco for me. After he departed, conversation flowed more easily than I'd expected, given her usually guarded nature.
"Your performance today was incredible," I said. "That triple-triple combination looked effortless."
"Years of practice," she replied, though I detected a hint of pride in her voice. "My body knows the movements so well I could probably land them in my sleep."
"That's the difference between a good athlete and a great one," I observed. "When technique becomes so ingrained it looks like instinct."
She tilted her head, studying me. "Yet you're known for skating by instinct rather than technique."
"Different approaches to the same goal," I shrugged. "You plan every movement. I feel the ice and respond in the moment. We both win medals."
"True." She swirled her wine thoughtfully. "Though your approach gives coaches heart attacks."
I laughed. "Hank's gone completely gray since taking me on. Claims it's genetics, but we both know better."
Our appetizers arrived—an artfully arranged plate of prosciutto, melon, and aged parmesan. Starla selected a piece of the salty ham, spearing it with the delicate silver tines of her fork.
"How did you end up with Hank as your coach?" she asked. "He has a reputation for being selective."
I chewed my bite of cheese slowly, considering how much to share. Something about the softly lit restaurant and her genuine interest made me want to lower my usual defenses.
"After my parents died, I bounced between foster homes, as you know. Some were okay, some..." I paused, memories of locked refrigerators and basement ‘bedrooms’ flashing through my mind. "Not so good. At one placement, there was this school field trip to an ice rink. First time I'd ever been on the ice."
"And you fell in love with it," she guessed.
"Not exactly." I smiled at the memory. "I was pissed off about being moved again, so I tried to race the other kids. Ended up faceplanting spectacularly in front of everyone."
Her eyes widened. "That doesn't sound like a love story."
"The humiliation should have ended it, but I couldn't let it go. Kept begging my foster parents to take me back. I wanted to prove I could do it." I took a sip of wine. "Eventually, this rec center coach noticed I had decent balance and a lot of stubbornness. He introduced me to Hank, who saw...something worth developing."
"Raw talent," she offered.
I shook my head. "Determination. Talent came later, after thousands of hours of training. Hank became the closest thing to family I had. Still is."
Our main courses arrived, steam rising from the perfectly plated dishes. Starla cut into her pasta with the same precision she applied to her skating, while I savored the tender veal that fell effortlessly from the bone.
"What about you?" I asked. "How does it feel to be following in the family footsteps?"
She tensed almost imperceptibly. "Well, I suppose that’s true. My mother was a downhill skier, Olympic silver medalist. Dad coached hockey before joining the Olympic Committee. Logan was the hockey prodigy. I was just looking for my own niche, I guess."
"Just looking for your niche…" I repeated skeptically. "And ended up one of the top-ranked figure skaters in the country…That's some niche."
She laughed softly. "Okay, fine. I was competitive from the start. My first coach said I had the most determined scowl she'd ever seen on a five-year-old."
I could picture it easily—tiny Starla, brow furrowed in concentration, refusing to leave the ice until she mastered a skill. Not so different from the woman before me now.
"Your parents must be proud," I said carefully, noting how she spoke of them with a mixture of reverence and tension.
"They are," she replied, though something in her voice suggested complication. "In their way. Dad charts my scores like stock market performance. Mom critiques my artistic expression. They mean well."
"But?" I prompted gently.
She hesitated. "Sometimes I wonder if they really know me. Or would care as much about me if I stopped skating.”
The raw honesty in her admission struck a chord. Here was Starla McKenzie—poised, perfect, perpetually composed—revealing a vulnerability few were privileged to see.
"Their loss," I said simply. "Because you're pretty remarkable, medal or no medal."
Color brushed her cheeks as she looked down at her plate. "You barely know me."
"I know enough," I insisted. "I've seen how you push through fear after someone tried to sabotage you. How you've tolerated my chaos without strangling me, which shows incredible restraint."
That earned a genuine laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "The restraint part is definitely medal-worthy."
As we continued eating, conversation shifted to lighter topics—ridiculous superstitions we'd witnessed at competitions, worst travel disasters, favorite places we'd skated. I found myself talking more than usual, sharing stories I rarely told anyone. Something about Starla drew confidences from me like water from a well I thought had run dry years ago.
Between bites of the tiramisu we decided to share for dessert, I caught myself watching her animated gestures as she described a disastrous costume malfunction at her first international competition. The realization hit me with unexpected force: I was completely captivated by this woman who had initially driven me crazy with her rigid perfectionism.
More striking was how comfortable this felt—sitting across from her, trading stories, laughing together. For someone who lived for the adrenaline rush of competition and the freedom of never staying in one place too long, I found myself contemplating what it might be like to slow down. To build something lasting.
My gaze drifted to an elderly couple at a nearby table, their comfortable silence speaking of decades shared. Would I ever know that kind of permanence? Or would I keep running—from competition to competition, from fling to fling—in an endless pursuit of the next high?
Perhaps what I was really running from was the void left by my parents' death. The absence of family. The fear of building connections only to lose them again.
Starla tilted her head, catching my distant expression. "Where did you go just now?"
I shook my head, returning to the present. "Nowhere important. Just thinking about…"
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the famous Blaze Hayes."
The slurred voice cut through our conversation like a jagged blade. I looked up to find Cassidy Palmer swaying slightly beside our table, her red hair dramatically styled, her dress clearly chosen for maximum impact. The empty wine glass clutched in her manicured hand suggested it wasn't her first drink of the evening.
"Cassidy." I kept my voice neutral. "This isn't a good time."
Her gaze swiveled to Starla, narrowing with recognition. "The Ice Queen herself. Of course." She laughed bitterly. "I should have known he'd trade up to someone more prestigious ."
Starla remained composed, though I noticed her spine straighten. "I don't think we've met formally. I'm…"
"I know exactly who you are," Cassidy interrupted, her words sliding together. "Little Miss Perfect with her perfect technique and her perfect scores. Does he know how frigid you are off the ice too?"
Heat flooded my face—not embarrassment, but anger. "That's enough, Cass. You're drunk. Let me call you a car."
"Don't you dare patronize me!" Her voice rose, drawing uncomfortable glances from nearby tables. "Six months together, and you just disappeared after Worlds. Wouldn't answer calls, wouldn't explain. And now I find you wining and dining her ?"
Before I could respond, she lifted her glass and tossed the remaining wine directly at me. The dark liquid splashed across my shirt and face, droplets scattering onto the white tablecloth.
"I knew you were leaving me for another woman," she continued, her voice rising to a screech. "And of course it would have to be Starla McKenzie. I knew it!" She turned her fury toward Starla. "You think you're so special? You're just another conquest to him, you little bitch!"
The restaurant fell silent. I rose slowly, using my napkin to wipe wine from my face, positioning myself slightly between Cassidy and Starla.
"That's enough," I said firmly. "You need to leave before you embarrass yourself further."
The restaurant manager appeared at Cassidy's elbow, his expression professionally concerned but firm. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step outside. We can call a taxi for you."
"Don't touch me!" She jerked away from his outstretched hand. "I'm going. This place is overpriced garbage anyway." She shot me one last venomous glare. "You'll regret this, Blaze. Both of you will."
With that final threat, she stormed toward the exit, nearly colliding with a waiter before disappearing into the night. The manager turned to us, mortification evident in his expression.
“Mr. Hayes, Ms. McKenzie, please accept our sincerest apologies. Your meal is on the house tonight. Would you like us to contact the authorities? We can file a report about this incident."
I glanced at Starla, whose face remained impressively composed despite the scene. She gave a slight shake of her head.
"No police," I confirmed. "But I think we're ready to leave."
The manager nodded, signaling for our coats. "Again, our deepest apologies. Please know you're always welcome at Giordano's."
Outside, the night air had turned colder, the earlier snowfall leaving a thin blanket of white on parked cars. I guided Starla to my Range Rover, painfully aware of the wine stain spreading across my shirt.
"I'm so sorry about that," I said once we were seated in the car. "Cassidy and I...it wasn't serious. At least, I didn't think it was. We had a brief thing after Worlds last year, but when she started talking about moving in together after just a few weeks..."
"You don't owe me an explanation," Starla said quietly.
"I feel like I do." I turned to face her. "What she said, about you being a conquest…that's not what this is. You and I…it's different."
Her eyes met mine, searching. "Different how?"
The question hung between us, laden with possibility. In that moment, with her face softly illuminated by the dashboard lights, I realized I didn't have the words to explain how she'd upended my carefully constructed world of temporary connections and constant motion.
Instead, I leaned across the console and kissed her.
For a heartbeat, she remained still, and I feared I'd misread everything. Then her hand came up to cup my jaw, her lips softening beneath mine. The kiss deepened, her mouth tasting faintly of tiramisu and wine. My fingers threaded through her hair, marveling at its silken texture against my skin.
When we finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, her eyes had darkened to a forest green. "Take me home," she whispered.
The drive to her apartment passed in charged silence, her hand resting on my thigh, my pulse thrumming at the contact. By the time we reached her building, the tension between us had built to an almost unbearable pitch.
In the elevator, she pressed herself against me, our lips meeting with newfound urgency. My hands spanned her waist, feeling the strength in her petite frame as she rose on tiptoes to deepen the kiss.
Inside her apartment, moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting ethereal shadows across the minimalist space. I caught a glimpse of her expression—desire mingled with a shadow of vulnerability—before she led me toward her bedroom.
Our lips crashed together the moment her bedroom door closed behind us. I backed her against the wall, my hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips. She moaned softly into my mouth as I pressed against her, the thin fabric of her dress doing little to hide her body's response to my touch.
"I've wanted this since I first saw you on the ice," I confessed against her neck, trailing hot kisses down to her collarbone.
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of my wine-stained shirt. "Too many clothes," she breathed, finally pushing the fabric from my shoulders.
I reached behind her, finding the zipper of her dress and slowly dragging it downward. The black fabric fell away, pooling at her feet to reveal a matching set of lace underwear that made my breath catch. Her body was a testament to athletic perfection—toned from years of training, yet undeniably feminine in every curve.
"God, you're beautiful," I whispered, my hands skimming up her sides.
She stepped out of her heels and pulled me toward the bed, her confidence momentarily giving way to vulnerability. "It's been a while for me," she admitted.
I kissed her deeply in response, lowering her onto the crisp white sheets. "We'll go as slow as you need."
Her hands explored my chest, tracing the defined muscles before trailing lower to the waistband of my jeans. Her touch grew bolder as she unbuttoned them, pushing the denim down my hips along with my boxers. I kicked them aside, finally as naked as she deserved to see me.
I reached behind her to unhook her bra, revealing perfect breasts that fit perfectly in my palms. Her sharp intake of breath as I rolled her nipples between my fingers sent heat surging through me. I replaced my hands with my mouth, drawing one taut peak between my lips while my hand slid down her stomach and beneath the lace of her panties.
She was already wet for me, her body arching as I stroked her most sensitive spot. "Gunnar," she gasped, her thighs falling open as I circled and teased.
I kissed my way down her body, hooking my fingers in her panties and drawing them slowly down her legs. She watched me through half-lidded eyes as I positioned myself between her thighs, my intentions clear. At the first stroke of my tongue against her center, she cried out, her hands flying to my hair.
I took my time, learning what made her moan, what made her fingers tighten in my hair, what made her thighs tremble. When I slipped two fingers inside her while continuing my attention with my tongue, she began to unravel, her hips moving in rhythm with my strokes.
"I'm close," she warned, her voice tight with approaching release.
I doubled my efforts, curling my fingers to find that perfect spot inside her while my tongue circled relentlessly. She came with a sharp cry, her body tensing and then pulsing around my fingers as waves of pleasure washed over her.
Before she could fully recover, I moved up her body, claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss. She reached between us, wrapping her fingers around my hardness, stroking me with a confidence that belied her earlier hesitation.
Our eyes locked as I positioned myself at her entrance, then slowly pushed inside her, both of us gasping at the sensation of our bodies finally joining.
I stilled, giving her time to adjust, fighting the urge to move. "Okay?" I whispered.
Her answer came in the form of her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. I began to move, finding a rhythm that made her gasp with each thrust. Her nails raked down my back, urging me on as our bodies found the same synchronicity we'd developed on the ice.
I shifted the angle, lifting one of her legs higher, and was rewarded with a sharp cry as I hit a spot that made her eyes flutter closed. "There," she breathed. "Right there."
I maintained the pace, watching her face as pleasure built within her again. When I felt her beginning to tighten around me, I reached between us, circling her sensitive bud with my thumb. She shattered for a second time, her inner muscles clenching around me in waves that triggered my own release, my hips jerking against hers as ecstasy overtook me.
Afterward, Starla lay nestled against my chest, her breathing gradually slowing. I traced patterns on her shoulder, marveling at the contrast between her fierce competitive spirit and the tender warmth she revealed in private moments.
"What are you thinking?" she murmured against my skin.
I considered deflecting with humor, my usual defense. Instead, I found myself offering truth. "That I've spent my life seeking the next adrenaline rush—the next race, the next win, the next fleeting connection. Always moving, never still enough to feel the emptiness."
She propped herself up on one elbow, studying my face in the moonlight. "And now?"
"Now I'm wondering what it would be like to stop running." My fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. "To build something that lasts."
Vulnerability flickered across her features. "That sounds suspiciously like a plan, Hayes. I thought you were all about improvisation."
"Maybe I'm learning the value of structure," I said softly. "From a very demanding teacher."
Her laugh vibrated against my chest, the sound more precious for its rarity. She settled back into my arms, her body warm against mine, and for the first time in years, I felt no urge to flee. No restless anxiety pushing me toward the next distraction.
Instead, I found myself hoping the night would stretch endlessly before us, giving me time to memorize every detail of this moment. The rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her head on my shoulder. The scent of her hair mingled with the lingering notes of her perfume.
Tonight, we were insulated from the world and its dangers. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—the charity exhibition, the ongoing mystery of who might be targeting Starla, the complications of merging our very different lives.
But for now, wrapped in moonlight and each other's arms, we had found a perfect harmony that neither of us had anticipated. And I, who had spent a lifetime in motion, found myself wanting nothing more than to remain exactly where I was.