Page 38 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

My heart jumps at the familiar knock that comes just after I’ve ended the call with Sloane, the same way it has every time Eric shows up at my door. Sloane might know the truth of how deep I'm in, but Eric can't know. I'm not brave enough for that yet.

I open the door and smile. He’s still wearing his wool cap but has taken off the rest of his layers and stands there in a T-shirt and a pair of long underwear.

It should be a crime to look that good in long undies.

“Are you heading out again?” His smile fades as his gaze travels down my body. Other than my boots, mittens, and hat, I’m still fully dressed.

“Sloane FaceTimed, so I haven’t gotten undressed yet, but I need to.”

He steps closer, his body deliciously firm against the spots where mine is soft. “As much as I’d like to help,” he says with a grin, “I have other plans for you this afternoon.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

He pulls back, leaning down to pick up something from the hallway. He holds up a pair of bright white ice skates. “Did you know Mrs. Simon was a figure skater back in the day?”

I feel my mouth drop open. “I did not.”

“She let me borrow these. She said you two wear the same size shoe. Rhett and Mike are hunkered down with a timer—twenty minutes of game tape earns them thirty minutes of video games. You and I are going ice skating.”

My heart plummets to my feet as I shake my head. “I'm not good on the ice.”

“Have you given it a real try?”

“I'm Marty Maxwell's daughter. Of course, I tried. I can stay upright. I'm just...not good.”

“I won't let you fall,” he vows, and the look on his face is so hopeful, I can't say no. I don't want to say no. To any of it.

“Promise?” I whisper, and he leans in to kiss me. Even though I'm sure it's only in my imagination, the weight of his lips on mine feels like a vow.

He pulls back slightly. “Promise.”

“Then lead on?—”

I start to call him coach but stop myself. Because suddenly that nickname feels as inappropriate as the manwhore with a heart tagline. This isn't about confidence or my bucket list or prepping me for dating other guys, and I don't want to pretend it is.

“Lead on, Eric.”

That might be the first time I've called him by his name outside of screaming it in the bedroom. The way his eyes go dark, I wonder if it means something to him. I want to believe it does, because it means something to me.

I grab my hat and mittens from where they're draped over the back of a kitchen chair, then shove my feet back into my boots by the door.

The apartment feels too warm now, the radiator clanking and hissing in the corner like it's protesting our departure.

Eric waits while I wrap my scarf around my neck, his hands already in his jacket pockets, keys jingling softly.

The hallway echoes with our footsteps, the worn carpet muffling the sound only slightly.

Outside, the snow is falling heavier now.

Eric brushes off the truck’s windshield with his sleeve before we climb in.

He lets the engine idle for a moment while the heater kicks in.

The drive to the rink takes us through the quiet residential streets then into the more industrial area outside the town limits.

“You nervous?” he asks as we turn onto the main road that leads to the sports complex.

“Always,” I admit, watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm.

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Good or bad nerves?”

“Both, I think.”

When we pull up to the ice rink, the parking lot is empty. The snow is still coming down, but since the roads are nearly deserted, we didn't have any trouble getting here. The building looms in front of us, utilitarian in the way community sports centers often are.

“Are you sure this is okay?”

“Your brother gave me the keys, and I texted him to say I'd be stopping by.”

I arch a brow. “With me?”

“I didn't mention that part, but it's okay.”

“It's more than okay,” I tell him.

We sit in the truck for another moment with the heat blasting, watching the snow collect on the windshield.

He’s giving me time. I know that and appreciate it.

When Eric turns off the engine, it’s quiet except for the tick of cooling metal, the soft whisper of snow against the windows and my heart pounding a mile a minute.

“Ready?”

I take a deep breath. “Ready.”

The rink is cold and dark until he turns on the lights.

Everything about this place is familiar to me—the smell, the glow of the LED bulbs overhead, the temperature that isn't freezing but also isn't warm.

I've always had conflicted feelings about the ice.

It's part of my blood, but I also never belonged here the way the rest of my family does.

I don’t feel that way with Eric.

We lace up our skates, my fingers briefly tangling the strings before I manage it.

They fit like a glove and feel oddly right on my feet.

He takes my hand as we step onto the ice, and the scrape of the skate blades and the cold air on my face feels new.

There's a warmth inside me that I let expand until my whole body is relaxed, just going with the flow.

He lets go and spins around, skating backward a few feet in front of me, as comfortable on skates as he is in regular shoes.

“You've been holding out, Tinkerbell. You can skate.”

My eyes roll to the high ceilings inside the rink. “I told you I learned. I was barely out of diapers the first time my dad put me on the ice. I wasn't interested in hockey, so my parents eventually signed me up for figure skating classes.”

“I bet you were a sight,” he says with a smile so sweet it makes my teeth ache.

I choke out a laugh. “Hardly. I lasted two sessions and cried in the back seat of Mom's minivan on the way there almost every time.” I pat my hips. “This body was meant for the hockey rink, not gliding along the ice doing jumps and twirls. I’m too big and clumsy.”

“You look like poetry in motion from here,” he assures me, and the sincerity in his voice makes me smile.

I haven’t been on skates for twenty years, but the basics come back quickly. I’m surprised at how comfortable I feel. It’s doubtful I’m going to take it up as a hobby, but I’m not embarrassing myself.

Maybe I never did. Maybe it was all in my mind that I had to be a certain way to fit in with my family. Maybe Sloane’s right, and it’s been enough to be me all along. I just never realized it.

“Okay, Mr. Hockey God.” I shoo him away. “Give me some room, and I'll show you my moves. ”

“Can you call me that the next time we’re naked in bed?” he asks but puts distance between us.

I skate a few feet forward, then do a somewhat shaky twirl. Eric whoops and cheers.

“A perfect ten! The crowd goes wild!’

I laugh and spin again, then push myself forward, lifting my left leg behind me, leaning my body forward, and reaching my arms out as I glide.

“And the gold goes to Tinkerbell!” he shouts.

My body shakes with laughter, causing me to lose my balance. I start to pitch forward, but pull back and right myself. It might be okay to fall, but hitting the hard ice hurts like a mother.

I'm wobbling, giving it my best try at keeping upright, and a moment later, Eric takes my hands.

Pulling me closer, he wraps his strong arms around me.

He's still skating backward, and I lean into him, trusting him to keep me safe, to keep me from falling—even though in my heart, I know it's too late.

I've fallen like a stone off the side of a cliff for this man. As much courage as it’s going to take to get up on that stage on opening night, it feels like the real bravery is going to come down to whether I'm willing to put my whole heart on the line after the curtain closes.