Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

nate

“I still can’t believe a tech billionaire from Brazil bought this place. You should’ve seen the town when they first heard the news,” Dax is telling me as we lean against the small bar by the back wall, the mountainscape on full view thanks to the massive windows. “Everyone was up in arms, thinking he was going to tear this place down and build a mega mansion or something. We almost had a full-blown riot in the streets.”

My lips twitch, imagining the people of this town rioting. Sugar Peak is too gentile for that. They’d never destroy anything that belonged to their neighbors. The Canadian guilt wouldn’t allow it. “The old resort was a staple of the town. I can only imagine how protective they felt over it when they heard the news.”

Even crumbling, the old resort meant something to each person of Sugar Peak.

For my dad, it was a place where his family would always go for Christmas dinner, where he’d come to snowboard down the mountains.

For Dax and me, it’s the place where we spent way too many parties. I look around the pristinely painted walls with interest. “How many coats of paint do you think it took for them to cover all the graffiti we left behind in this place?”

“I hope not enough that they covered the penises I drew all over the men’s bathroom on the third floor.”

I laugh, knowing he drew one every time he hooked up with a chick in there. Some people had notches on their belt, Dax had penis art.

“I think it’s safe to say your conquests have been buried.” I take a pull from the long neck bottle in front of me.

“Damn,” he swears mournfully into his own bottle. “What a waste.”

“I’m sure your wife would love to hear that.” She is responsible for most of his drawings, if I’m remembering all the holidays I spent up here correctly.

Dax shakes his shorn head at me, his blonde hair nothing but a layer of fuzz at this point. A black toque sits atop of the bar next to him. “Are you kidding me? She’d probably say we should just start a new collection of them.”

His face brightens with the idea. “Hang on, I gotta make a call.”

I laugh again as he swipes his hat off the bar, tugs it over his military-cut head and meanders down the hall, no doubt to call his wife and see if she wants to relive their teenage days.

Dax and I have been friends since we were kids, meeting in a peewee hockey league. Dax always had more love for the sport than I did. Something about it just never quite gripped me the way I think my parents expected it to.

I love watching hockey, have been obsessed with the sport since I was too young to really understand what was happening, but when it came to playing? Not so much.

Which really fucking sucked because all anyone ever told me was how much raw talent I had for the game.

But talent didn’t equal passion. That didn’t come until Dax convinced me to take a figure skating class with him to improve our performance on the ice.

Then I found my passion.

I loved figure skating, loved the athleticism it required, loved the challenges it presented. Each lesson was like a puzzle I couldn’t wait to solve, whereas hockey always felt…well, easy. Simple.

While my dad never said anything, my mom was devastated the day I came home and told them I wanted to switch sports.

She refused, we fought. My dad told me to go to my room before they fought some more.

The next day, my dad signed me up for more ice skating classes. My mom left three weeks later. And I haven’t heard from her since.

I was eight.

The beer isn’t enough to wash away that particular memory, but I down the bottle anyway before signaling the bartender for another.

Dax still isn’t back as the bartender slides me a freshly opened bottle. I nod my head in thanks as the side of my face grows warm. But not from the roar of the fireplace. I’m too far away to feel its heat.

No, this feels more concentrated. Harder to ignore. Begging for attention.

I’m not unused to stares when I come home or whispers trailing after me like shadows, but this feels different.

Familiar in a way I’m not used to feeling here. A feeling that only surfaces around one person…

But that feels impossible, because she would never come here. Wouldn’t subject herself to breathing the same air as me, if given the choice.

Still, the sensation buries deeper into my skin. Intensifying.

Curiosity powers the sweep I do around the room.

It doesn’t take me long to find her, though.

Shock ripples through me. Followed by a twisted elation only she can inspire.

I’ve done it, Dad.

I’ve somehow conned my way off Santa’s naughty list.

The moment my gaze clashes with the wide, disbelieving blue-green eyes I’d be able to pick out of a lineup no matter what shade they lean on that day, I almost don’t believe it.

Paige Montgomery is right in front of me.

I’d be more convinced to find out the elevation from the mountains has made the beer go to my head at an embarrassingly quick rate, making me hallucinate the last person who would ever be here. I’d even believe this was a dream, one I’ve had countless times over.

The only problem is the Paige in my dreams is always laughing, the tension she wears like a hand-fitted coat ebbs off her, and the playful spirit I know she doesn’t let come out to play runs wild.

The Paige in front of me contains none of these qualities.

So this has to be real. Right?

She looks almost frozen, stunned by seeing me. Tension holding her already perfect posture rigid, her pale, freckled knuckles are bleached from how tight she’s gripping a mug with the resort’s name stamped across it. She’s holding it like a shield in front of her.

I’d like to think it’s my devilishly handsome good looks making her react this way. She’s too enchanted to speak. Captivated by my manliness.

But I know better. Even if Paige did have a rebellious thought thinking that, she’d never admit it, let alone show it.

She’s a master of denying herself things that make her happy.

She’d rather make herself miserable, under the guise of achievements, than actually take a risk on anything that could distract her from skating.

From across the lobby, I watch the disbelief shift to shock in a shuttering effect. Each blink paints a different emotion on her elegantly soft features, until they harden into a mask she often hides behind, locked away with a disdain she only reserves for me.

I’d feel flattered, if not for the bitter ire I can taste all the way from here, sitting on my tongue like an iron lead.

Real.

This is real.

But how?

How is she here?

Why is she here?

Paige doesn’t celebrate Christmas, and she certainly doesn’t take vacations. The amount of times I’ve wanted to bring her here over the years ticks up to a number impossible to say, but I never brought myself to ask because I always knew what her answer was going to be.

No.

Because nothing comes before skating.

Nothing.

Not even when she’s been running a fever or crying on the locker room floor from period cramps. She’s laced up her skates and gotten out on the ice.

Ice skating is all that matters, even at the detriment of her health, her happiness. Her relationships.

Us.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet.

She’s here.

Hi, Princess. I raise my hand—and wave. Wiggling each finger with deliberate exaggeration.

I relish in the way her face contorts, her already ruddy freckled cheeks blazing with an agitation that wraps around the room. Or at least wraps its cranky arms around me as she starts to move.

Crossing the room.

Right toward me. Heated determination hardens her delicate features as she does.

Well, if she wants to come over to say hello.

I lean back against the bar, wearing a half-smile that I know drives her insane. She calls it my scoundrel smile, like I’m up to no good, taking great pleasure in doing so.

I watch with deep satisfaction as her refined features darken. Eyes narrowing, lip curling. Nose scrunching.

Adorable in every facet.

She makes it too easy. All I have to do is breathe for a crease to dent her eyebrows.

And what a cute crease it is as she glides toward me. Even brimming with agitation, she moves with a grace that should only exist on ice. An ease that carries her on skates. She’s art walking, and I’m nothing but a lucky observer.

“Princess,” I greet when she’s close enough, opening my arms wide for a hug that won’t come. “Miss me that much? It’s only been a few days.”

Days. Such a funny way to say years, because even though we still train at the same arena together, both still members of Charmed Athletics, we only interact with quickly traded jabs and long-distance stares—or in her case, glares.

She avoids me otherwise.

“Nate,” she all but growls, my name a curse on her tongue.

“You didn’t need to come up to Canada to see me. A call would’ve worked just as well after you unblocked my number.”

“Why would I do that when you just show up when I least want to see you?”

A hand goes to my chest. “You say the sweetest things to me. How do you manage to save any pleasantries for anyone else?”

Her lip curls before she says, “You know, somehow I manage.”

“Don’t make me jealous now. Here I am thinking I’m special.”

“Oh, you are. I have a special place in my hell for you.”

“Funny, you mispronounced heart.”

“No I didn’t.” The smile she gives me is downright feral, and fuck if I don’t love it. I’ll look into therapy another day. “It’s where I send anyone who betrays me, where they’re cursed to live forever in damnation.”

I forget how dramatic she can be. It’s usually smothered by her more serious, anxiety-driven thoughts.

“Hm, sounds fun. But I think you’re going to want to move me out of there. At least for a little bit.”

“And why’s that?” She crosses her arms over her chest, a silent, this should be good emanating from her stiff form.

“Because I’m Santa’s favorite.” I wave a hand at her. “Clearly. Otherwise, why would you be here?”

She stares at me for a minute, her sharpened brows practically pressed together, like she’s contemplating my sanity.

It’s not a new look from her.

“I hate to be the one to crush your childhood innocence—actually.” She tilts her head to the side, her red hair cascading down her shoulder. “I’m so delighted to be the one to tell you this, but Santa isn’t real, Nate. He’s not responsible for why I’m here. But maybe if you think he’s the reason you’re here, we can get you checked into a hospital and I can go about my time at this resort in peace.”

“I’ll only check in if you promise to give me a sponge bath every hour. I’m a very needy patient.”

If eyes could shoot lasers, I’d be eviscerated right now. It only makes the grin on my face grow wider.

“Knock it off,” Paige grits through her overly white teeth, drilling a finger in between my pectoral muscles. “Would it kill you to be serious for even five minutes?”

“Yes.” I look from her scowl, her freckles on full display, to her finger as it presses deeper into my chest, and simply lift a brow. “You can give me more than that, Princess. Don’t be afraid to draw a little blood. You know I like it rough.”

She pulls her hand back so fast, it practically blurs and snarls, “What are you doing here? Did Cole put you up to this?”

Okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I can be serious for five minutes when she says the one name that has the ability to suck up all the fun in any room it’s uttered in.

Cole. Fucking Cole.

My entire good mood vanishes as I lock my jaw to keep my own snarl at bay. We were having such a good time. Why would Paige go and ruin it by mentioning her partner’s name?

“Cole? Why would Cole put me up to this?” As if I’d do anything that fucker asked. “What this are we even talking about?”

Her widened eyes tell me she didn’t mean to bring him up, just as shocked to hear her question as I am, but instead of clearing up why his name matters right now, Paige just crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. Like I’m the problem here. “You know the polite thing to do when someone asks a question is to answer it. Not ask your own.”

If she’s going to deflect, then so am I. Some might call it childish, but this is the longest I’ve had Paige’s attention in two years, and I’m not going to let that go by being cooperative. That’s no fun.

“But what do they say when some beautiful woman comes all the way here to flirt with you?”

“I am not flirting with you.” She looks ill at the mere suggestion.

Isn’t she, though? “Have you ever heard the saying the lady doth protest too much?”

Her mug is clenched so tight, I’m surprised it hasn’t shattered. Or been smashed against my face. “Have you ever heard the lady doth stab you if you don’t stop being annoying?”

“Oh, that’s kinky.” I point my beer at her. “See, flirting.”

“Nathan.”

“Princess.”

“Please be serious right now.”

“Serious is my middle name.”

“We both know your middle name is Gabriel.”

“So you do remember things about me.”

Her brows furrow together, and I ignore the pinch of pain between my ribs as I say, “I’m from here.”

“What?”

“This is my hometown.”

Realization dawns on her before the words are even finished coming out of my mouth.

“Oh.”

I deflect that brief sting of seeing she really doesn’t remember. It’s my fault for thinking she filed anything about me outside of skating away. I know where I’ve always stood, and that’s partly why we find ourselves constantly at each other’s throats, her with her fangs, and me with my teasing, so I do what I always do—push through the disappointment with another lightweight quip. “Bet you wish?—”

Until I see her face. Actually see past the glares and the snarl and the freckles that have always been my downfall.

She looks tired, and not with the kind of exhaustion that comes from a day’s worth of travel. Just like her stare I felt boring into me from across the room, this goes deeper, weights tied to her bones.

Paige looks completely worn down. Her normally glowing skin is now dull, if not a little gray. Blueish-purple bags sit under her gemstone shaded eyes, and tension brackets her mouth. A kind of tension that digs deeper than just seeing me.

Something happened.

I know it like I know all these little details about her. Like how she prefers hot chocolate to coffee, even when running on little to no sleep, how she will spend an absurd amount of money on skincare to make herself feel better after a bad day, how she hates Christmas but loves festive treats, or how she has never met a grudge she is able to let go of.

Paige Montgomery is a book I can read a thousand times and never get bored with.

But this? I don’t like this page.

Especially if it has to do with Cole.

“What did he do?” A surge of territorial protectiveness I have no business feeling fills me. “Did he hurt you?”

I have no right. I tell myself it’s not fair. To feel this way about her partner of the last two years, not when I all but flung her into his weak, conniving, lifeless arms.

“You don’t get to ask me that.” Paige’s face shutters, shutting down. “Not after what you did.”

Inwardly, I flinch. “I’m not your enemy, Paige.”

“No,” she agrees, making the word sound like the saddest song. “You just decided you’d rather be my rival, and somehow that will always feel worse.”

Before I can respond, her friend Kylie appears, giving me a look that says exactly how she feels about me. And it’s not a happy feeling.

“P? We gotta go if we’re going to make that reservation,” Kylie says, sliding a protective arm across Paige’s shoulder, and I hate the swell of jealousy filling my chest, wishing it was me with my arm around her instead.

They leave without another word. And I’m not sure how I feel as I watch them go.

I have to tell her. I have to tell her why I left her two years ago. I’ve made a lot of mistakes when it comes to Paige Montgomery, but I’m going to make things right.

I’m going to make us all right.

But first, I gotta find out what Cole did.

Slipping my phone out my back pocket, I’m about to text the one person who always knows more of Charmed’s happenings than me when Dax comes back, a guy we hung out with from his high school in tow. I think his name is Calvin.

“Bro,” Maybe-Calvin breathes out beside me, his eyes trailing after Paige. “Who was that? ”

“Not for you,” I growl before firing off my text. My hand grips the phone tighter than necessary to keep me from throwing a punch at a friend of a friend.

I can’t get kicked out of this place.

Not when there’s something bigger on the line.