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CHAPTER SEVEN

paige

I severely regret agreeing to today. Not only do I still feel queasy from Nate’s asinine, adrenaline junkie-fueled driving, the sugar plum cheese danish he had waiting for me now sits heavy in my stomach, but I can’t shake this weighted, dread-filled feeling that something bad is about to happen.

Now, that could just be because I’m in the middle of the woods, almost at the very top of a monstrous mountain, with only Nate, a quaint cabin, and a densely frozen lake around to hear my screams.

I’ve listened to too many true crime podcasts to not be thinking about this. I even accused Nate of wanting to murder me on the drive up here, almost causing us to crash when he looked at me with a twisted, disbelieving expression, asking if I was crazy.

I told him no then.

But I’m rethinking my answer now.

“Are you sure it’s okay we do this?” I glance up at the sky. The graying clouds darken more and more with what feels like each passing minute. Or I’m going crazy. The answer is a toss-up, really.

Nate looks over from where he’s tying his skates. His intensely blue eyes pop against not only his gray long sleeve and black joggers outfit, but the snow-covered tree branches and powdery backdrop behind him.

Searing me where I stand at the edge of the lake.

He looks so strong and commanding, even on his knees, and yet as relaxed as the breeze.

“We’re fine.” His eyes flit to the sky briefly before returning to me. “The storm isn’t supposed to be here until later tonight. We have plenty of time.”

He says storm like he doesn’t think it’s going to be much of anything. And maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just worrying about this so I don’t focus on my actual problems, but I’d still like to be back at the resort before the snow starts to fall.

We already had to watch the roads for ice on the way up here. Having a compromised view with Nate’s insane driving doesn’t sound fun for me at all. It sounds more like a death wish.

But I remain in place. Blades stamping the ice as I shift from one foot to the next, unsure.

Nate watches my movements with a hyperfocus I don’t like, stretching up to his full height. “Do you really want to go back down the mountain so soon?”

“No.” The mere thought has me holding my rolling stomach. I need time to recover before doing that again.

I hate that he sees so much of me. That he knows me so well still.

It’s bad enough that he knows about what happened with Cole, that he sees the difficulties I’m having with skating. But I draw the line at him seeing me throw up.

That’s something I just can’t come back from.

“Thought so.” Nate skates over to where I’m still lingering, not stopping until the tips of his skates touch the tips of mine.

“Just give me one hour,” he says softly, in a raspy, almost pleading voice.

I bite the inside of my cheek, glancing up to the sky again. And squint. Did they just get darker? No, now I’m just being paranoid. I can survive an hour with Nate. I’ve survived a lot worse.

Plus, Kylie is making good use of having our hotel room all to herself for a little bit. I can’t interrupt her plans.

“One hour,” I say in a steely tone, making it sound like it’s actually my idea.

“One hour,” Nate agrees easily. “And then we can get out of here.”

Here is Nate’s family’s fishing cabin.

The very place he spends every Christmas.

Apparently, they used to own a house in town until Nate moved in with his grandparents in Brooklyn so he could train at Charmed and his dad could still do his job as a truck driver, deciding to just keep this cabin that Nate’s great-grandfather built.

Nate told me all about this while barely paying attention to the tight curves on the mountain road, when I didn’t think we’d actually make it here safely. But now that we have, I’m a little stunned with the view.

The jagged mountain peaks are painted across the sky, with woodland all around us, save for right in the middle of this snowy Bob Ross landscape, where a modest alpine lake sits frozen over.

No wonder he likes to come here.

There’s a peacefulness that can’t be bought. No resort or spa or vacation to the mountains could replicate.

It feels like we stepped through a portal. To this surreal, almost otherworldly place. Untouched by human corruption, save for the little hand-built cabin.

Which sits not far where we stand, decorated with a colorful array of Christmas lights strung along the roof while garland wraps around the porch with a matching wreath on the door. Even the small decorative statue of a black bear holding a fish dons a red and white Santa hat.

The sight is even more arresting than the panoramic view. If only because I don’t often think of two bachelor men decorating for Christmas. And maybe that’s wrong on my part, to assume or assign ideas, but I guess it’s because I didn’t realize Nate cared enough about the holiday to dedicate the time and care into even putting up a tree, much less decorations.

Unless…

“Did your dad remarry?” A lot can change in two years. Maybe Mr. Ford found love on the road. (See, I’m not always a cynic.)

“My dad? No.” Nate shakes his head, taking the hat he’s had tucked in his back pocket and slipping it on his head. Backwards, of course. “Why?”

I gesture toward the house. “I was just curious to see who decorated it, I guess.”

“That was me.” He smirks. “So if you’re looking to direct your compliments somewhere, I’m ready when you are.”

“Who said anything about compliments? Your wreath is crooked.” I skate away from him.

If I don’t, I’m afraid we’ll just keep bickering until the cold has frozen us over.

Time seems to stand still when we get locked into an argument. Or maybe I’m so single-mindedly focused, I can’t concentrate on anything outside of having the last word.

So being the more mature one, I put some much-needed distance between us. Fiddling with my smart watch as I do, tapping away at the screen until I have one hour keyed up on it.

I hit the start button.

“Your one hour starts now,” I tell Nate.

I don’t know if he hears me. He’s too busy scrutinizing said wreath, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious with it being crooked or if it was just something I said to mess with him.

“Nate.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes so intense I feel a pinch in my chest.

Ignoring it, I hold up my watch, the countdown racing on it. “Do you want to talk decorations or do you want to skate?”

“With you, Princess?” His stare spells trouble. “Skating. Always.”

I don’t bother telling him how untrue that is.

We make it eleven minutes in before our first fight.

Nate is skating too close to me, and I yell at him to stick to his side of the lake.

Another five go by before we have our next.

Nate doesn’t understand where his side of the lake is. So we have to clear that up with some of the garland I angrily undo from the porch. Nate grumbles about me roughly handling the foliage as I lay it across the lake.

He gets a quarter of space. I get the rest. His punishment for not listening the first time.

We make it another fifteen minutes before I feel him watching me closely from his designated side.

I tell him to stop. But telling Nate not to do something is basically the same as telling a toddler. He’s going to pretend to listen for as long as it takes me to look away, and then his earnest, assessing eyes will be back on me. Cataloging everything I’m doing wrong.

Maybe if he stopped watching me, I would actually be able to do what I’m supposed to be doing.

I’ve never had stage fright. Crowds, and people watching me, usually make me want to perform well. If not show off.

It’s like there are two different Paiges.

On land, I’m the shy, introvert who is oftentimes stuck in her head. While on the ice, I’m this confident, powerful performer who thrives off praise.

At least, I used to.

Now I’m trying to ignore the way my skin hums under Nate’s unwavering attention.

I make it another twelve minutes before I’ve had enough.

My blades give an angry hiss as I come to an abrupt stop as I spin out of my jump.

“This is ridiculous. You’re not even skating!” I shout at him. He’s just standing there watching me as I wrap my triple toe.

Again.

“You keep messing up,” he supplies oh-so-helpfully.

You look horrible in orange. You look horrible in orange.

The reminder isn’t stopping the edges of my vision from tinging red or my hands from curling into tight fists as I search for a deep breath.

And try to swallow my sharp retort.

The thank you, Captain fucking Obvious feels a little too middle school to really convey how annoyed I am with him right now.

So I just shoot him two middle fingers.

That’s better.

“Name the time and place, Montgomery.” His gaze simmers with thinly veiled amusement.

Oh, the delusion he has to think that’s the kind of fuck I’m talking about.

“Not an invitation, Ford. It’s a damnation. As in damn you for bringing me out here.” I rip out my ponytail, hair cascading down my shoulders. “If I wanted a coach to bark at me, I’d just video call Vytas.”

He stares at me, at my hair, for a beat. “But you won’t because you enjoy my face more.”

If that’s what he has to tell himself to sleep at night. “The only time I’d want to see your face more is if it’s pinned to a dart board.”

“I saw you playing darts last night at Dick’s. I feel safe on that board.”

My frustration teeters towards its breaking point, and it has nothing to do with him bringing up my abysmal talent at darts or that an invading thrill shoots up my back knowing he was watching me last night after he went to entertain his fan club.

No, it’s more fine-tuned than that.

Not only can I not land a jump I mastered when I was still in middle school, but I keep doing it in front of Nate.

Nate. The current reigning Nationals Champion.

Nate. Who has scored higher with Stassi than all my scores with Cole combined.

Nate. Who seems to be soaring to new heights in figure skating while I’m struggling to land a fucking triple toe properly.

It’s infuriating. It’s embarrassing.

Broadcasted for him to see.

Ugh. Why did I think coming here would be a good idea?

The fucking beard.

Closing my eyes, I try to take a deep breath, but instead become acutely aware of Nate skating my way. Ignoring our garland divider.

Even if I missed the way his blades scrape against the ice, I can’t miss how my entire body buzzes with an awareness. Crackles with this energy that feels so foreign yet wholly familiar.

A sensation that only he stirs.

I force my eyes open, noting that soft snow flurries have started falling from the sky, in a light, almost slow-motioned drizzle.

But for the first time all morning, the impending snow storm is far from the front of my mind. Chased away by Nate’s intensely focused stare.

It’s made his usually cocky, laid-back features sharpen. More purposed. Demanding.

“You’re holding yourself back.” He circles me like a shark, around and around. Each lap bringing him closer to me.

My jaw locks. “Any more pointless observations you’d like to share with the class?”

I expect him to say something like only if I can be your teacher’s pet or something equally unserious, because it’s Nate and it’s what we do. Trading in banter that always leans hostile from me and flirty from him.

But he doesn’t lean into the volley I just served. “When was the last time you lost yourself in skating?”

I pretend to think about it. “Well, I was trying to, until someone had to be all creepy and ruin it by staring at me.”

“No, I’m talking really losing yourself.” He shakes his head. An almost crestfallen expression overtakes his rugged features that fit the mountains so well. “Where you almost forget you’re actually skating and instead just give into that overwhelming feeling, that urge to let your body be free and let go. Where skating feels more important than breathing. ”

My chest feels heavy. It’s a simple question, born of a passion and drive that makes this lifestyle so worth it. But what was once an easy answer for me is now riddled with buts and what ifs and feelings that rob me of everything I once found rewarding.

And Nate sees it.

As easy as a billboard, he sees it.

“When was the last time putting on your skates made you feel excited and not like an obligation?”

The cavity in my chest opens, beating like a deep, hollow ceremonial drum as Nate skates closer and closer.

I start to answer, but nothing comes out. My mouth just hangs kind of open, unable to say anything.

There’s nothing to say.

Because I don’t remember.

“You skate every day, Paige.”

Because I’m terrified of what will happen if I stop.

“And yet you look miserable out here.”

“Maybe that’s just the company.”

“Maybe,” he agrees easily. Softly. “But I’m willing to bet it happens when I’m not around, too.”

I don’t answer him. But I keep holding his stare, even if internally I’m clawing to look away. To keep the vulnerability hidden.

But how far can it hide if he already sees it?

“What are you afraid of, Princess?”

Now this answer comes easy.

I’m afraid of failure. Of being forgotten. Of dedicating my entire life to a sport to only have it turn against me. To know I never really had a talent for it at all.

I’m afraid of so much.

I barely register him grabbing my waist as I sway. Unsteady on my skates when I’m usually surefooted. It’s not until I feel a soft caress of his thumb that I realize he’s holding me.

My heart thumps heavily in my chest, heat wrapping around my neck like a scarf as Nate slowly brushes flecks of snow off my cheek. His deeply blue eyes trap me.

“What are you afraid of?” His words whisper against my lips, as his breath fogs my vision.

I feel him against my skin, his warmth, his solidness. It spreads across my body until he brushes against every particle of my being.

This. I’m afraid of this. Of this visceral feeling his close proximity always brings.

It feels like I’m going to burn through my skin.

Not that I let him know that as I give him a stare as cool as the temperature in the air, trying to melt the heat coursing between us. “Your breath. It stinks.”

Nate flashes me his medal-winning smile. The over-the-top, showing-all-his-teeth smile that charms the judges and cameras every time he flashes it.

Slimy. Fake. Wrong.

I’m so taken aback by it that I almost miss the gum poking out from between his clamped teeth.

Snaking his tongue out, Nate flicks it back into his mouth. That performance smile fading until only his familiar, cocky smirk remains. “Nice try, sweetheart. Want to try again?”

“No.” I push against his chest, but Nate grabs my waist.

Stopping me. Pulling me back in.

“Why do you keep running from me?” His voice is strained. As if this is a question that’s been trying to crawl its way out for a while.

“Why do you keep chasing me?” My breathing turns heavy. All thoughts fleeing to his hands on my body. The roughness of his grip as it tightens around me, his arms bulging under the flexed force.

“Paige,” he rasps. Soft, and rough, like he’s just waking up.

I should push him away. I know if I try again, he’ll let me go.

My hands are already on his chest. All I have to do is make my move.

But the look on his face stunts me. He’s so open. Not hiding behind the natural charisma that practically sweats out of his pores. There are no airs. No humor to hide behind.

Just raw, unbridled emotion that captures me. A little hare in the wolf’s clutches.

He sees me. When all the world has their opinions, he sees me.

Nate shifts his arms, pulling me closer. Until I can feel the beat of his heart sprinting. Wildly uncontrollable. He tucks his chin into his chest, his face suddenly closer to mine. The bluest of blue eyes are now hooded, saturated with a want so palpable I start to wonder if it’s my own.

He’s going to kiss me.

It’s nothing but a whisper in my head, but it crashes like a crescendo regardless.

Nate waits to see if I’m going to push him away.

I should. I am.

My palms are still on his chest.

All I have to do is give him a little shove.

Nate inches closer.

My hands start to tingle, needles dancing under the skin.

One push, that’s all it will take.

He continues moving.

I glance at his mouth.

My breathing thickens.

What am I supposed to be doing?

Push or pull?

I can feel a tease of his beard, his hand slipping up my back.

“ Paige. ” My name sounds strangled.

He’s going to kiss me.

And I think I’m going to let him ? —

A sharp ringing goes off. The sound is so jarring, so intrusive, I nearly jump out of my skin. Shattering whatever warped spell has befallen us.

Nate closes his eyes, a deep sigh leaving his body.

Slightly dazed, I gently, finally, push against his chest and this time—he lets me go. I tell him softly, “Time’s up.”