Chapter 27 Harper
Harper
I am going to regret this.
The thought crosses my mind for the millionth time as I tighten the laces of one of the skates, my fingers fumbling against the stiff leather. Easton stands several feet away, leaning casually against the boards, looking pleased as punch that I’m joining him.
“Need help?” he calls, raising an eyebrow. “Make sure they’re tight enough so you don’t break an ankle.”
“Nah,” I say quickly, tightening the other with a little more force than necessary, as if to prove a point. I finish with a neat bow and sit up straighter. “I’ve got it.”
I wobble slightly as I rise to my feet.
Easton holds out his hand, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Just so you know, falling is part of the experience. I won’t judge you.”
“Super. Can’t wait.”
The skates feel uncomfortable and unsteady beneath me, and I grip the edge of the bench for balance, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Spoiler alert: He notices.
“Looking good,” he teases. “Very good. Very graceful.”
“Shut up,” I snap, shooting him a glare that only makes him laugh. I take a cautious step forward, my fingers gripping the wall for support as I shuffle toward the rink. “I don’t see what’s so hard about this.”
“Wait until you actually get out here,” he says, skating backward effortlessly as he watches me take one step at a time. “Baby steps.”
I bet he’s been skating since he was old enough to walk. Meanwhile, I feel like a newborn deer, all knees and no balance, clinging like my life depends on it.
“I’m fine,” I tell him defensively, fingers tightening on the edge of the plexi as I inch closer, my skates sliding awkwardly beneath me. “I’m totally fine.”
“Sure you are,” he says, the teasing edge in his voice making me want to smack him with his own hockey stick. “You’ve got this, Harper. I believe in you.”
I shoot him another glare, but it loses some of its impact when my left skate quivers, throwing me off balance.
“Relax,” he says, skating a little closer. “Let the ice do the work.”
“The ice is trying to kill me,” I mutter under my breath, but he hears it and laughs, the billowing sound echoing through the nearly empty rink.
“Trust me,” he says, holding out a hand. “Once you get moving, it’ll feel natural. You just have to let go.”
Let go? That is not happening!
I glance at his outstretched hand, then at the ice—then at his face.
There’s no smugness in his expression, no mocking—just quiet confidence, like he knows I can do this even if I don’t believe it myself.
With a deep breath, I release my grip on the wall and take his hand. The moment our fingers touch, his grip tightens, warm and steady, securing me in a way that makes the ice feel less terrifying.
“There we go. Good job,” he cajoles softly. “One step at a time.”
I take another step, tentative. Easton’s grasp stays firm, keeping me upright. It feels like the rink has been plotting my downfall.
“See? Not so terrible,” he coaches, thumb brushing my palm. Back and forth.
Back.
Forth…
“I hate this.” I hold on tighter as I take another cautious step. Legs shaky, balance precarious—even with him guiding me.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “Maybe I won’t have to laugh at you after all.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I snap, no heat behind my words. If anything, his confidence in me is starting to rub off—just the babiest bit.
Easton grins, skating with ease, his hands still connected to mine, his steady encouragement just managing to keep me from freaking the frick out!
“Look at you go!” he declares. “You’re a natural!”
“Oh, stop.” I smile, like no big deal. “Like riding a bike.”
“Exactly like riding a bike.” He nods, gaze locking on mine.
The corners of his mouth tip up into a smile, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me…it has me shivering, a full-body shiver that’s a mix of nerves and the cold and excitement. His eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and he tilts his head to study me.
“Are you cold?” he asks, his voice softening as he slows to a stop in front of me. “You want to go back? Warm up?”
“No!” I shake my head quickly. “No—I’m good.”
It’s a lie. I am cold—but that’s not the reason I shivered.
It’s him.
The way his thumb is lightly brushing the back of my palm. The way his eyes linger on mine. The way he looks like he has something he wants to say.
“What?” I ask softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His gaze drops to where our hands are joined before flicking back up to meet mine. There’s a hesitation in his expression now, something nervous and deliberate—like he’s gearing up for something big.
Oh my god.
Is this it? Is he about to ask me to prom?
IS THAT THE SOMETHING BIG?
My heart pounds so loudly I swear can hear it drumming in my ears.
This has to be the moment. The dreamy gaze. The quiet tension. The fact that we’re holding hands in the middle of an empty rink like some kind of romantic comedy cliché.
Even though it’s not the public promposal I wanted, this is literally so perfect!
I hold my breath, pulse racing as I breathlessly wait for him to say those seven words: WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME?
“Why are you looking at me that way?” I ask again, my voice tentative, the anticipation making my knees wobble.
He blinks, his grin faltering. “How am I looking at you?”
“Oh—you know how you’re looking at me.” Like you have something you’re dying to ask and you waited until Macy was in the car so you could do it privately!
SO ROMANTIC. I practically squeal in delight.
“Why are you being weird?” Easton raises an eyebrow, hand still holding mine as we glide across the ice. “Do you think I’m up to something?”
I nudge him as we slowly skate along. “Well…are you?”
I keep my tone light—flirty—giving him the perfect opening for a grand gesture: the setting, the mood, the way he’s holding my hand like we’re on an actual date.
He cocks his head, giving me a sidelong glance, his grin widening as he moves, stopping in front of me. Oh god, oh god, oh god! This is it!
“Harper.” The teasing edge is gone. “You’re terrible at hiding what you’re thinking, you know that?”
“Pfft.” My pulse quickens, and I swallow hard. “You know what I’m thinking about?” How could he possibly?
“I think you’re hoping I’ll stop messing around and get to the point.”
I remember to keep my breathing even, but my chest feels tight, anticipation curling around my ribs. He wouldn’t have brought me here just to skate around and flex his hockey muscles if there wasn’t a reason. This must be it.
His fingers skim over mine again; then—slowly—he lifts his free hand and runs it along the curve of my jaw.
Oh.
Oh.
We’re standing so close. So, so close, my breath catches, and my thoughts screech to a halt. This isn’t—he isn’t—
“Yes,” I whisper, unable to stand it any longer. “The answer is yes!”
Easton freezes. His brows pull together, confusion flickering in his eyes as he searches my face.
“What?” he asks roughly.
Oh no.
No, no, no. Did I ruin the moment because I have a big mouth and zero chill?
Heat shoots up my neck, my entire body flushing with the realization that I might have just given an answer to a question that did not exist.
Easton stares, close enough that I can see the way his pupils are blown wide, the sharp set of his jaw as he exhales slowly, his perfect lips parted.
“Were you going to kiss me?” I whisper, confused.
Instead of stepping back, he leans in. Closer. His fingers ghost over my wrist, featherlight, like he’s testing my reaction—like he’s daring himself to do something as so bold as to kiss me in the center of the ice.
One inch closer—maybe less—and we won’t be talking anymore.
He licks his lips and my eyes follow. “I don’t know. Should I?”
Should he?
Yes! Yes, because he is right here in front of me, the warmth of his breath passing over my lips more tempting than I would have ever guessed. Yes, because I know his mouth would be soft, warm, everything I shouldn’t be thinking about!
No.
No because this is Easton. Because I can’t just let my body win not knowing how he feels about me. Does he like me or not? My heart is an unpredictable thing, already tripping over itself, already slipping dangerously toward something unstoppable.
He leans forward and whispers, “Tell me to fuck off.”
I can’t. My heart is stuttering and my hands are trembling. My brain? It’s screaming at me to say something! Anything! Be rational, Harper! Demand some sort of clarity before you let him kiss you again!
But my body? Oh…she’s weak. WEAK, I SAY! Already leaning in. Already betraying me. Fingers already curling into front of his navy blue sweatshirt.
He’s going to kiss me.
And I’m going to let him.
I’m going to—
“Westermann!”
We jolt apart, shoving each other away like we’ve been caught committing another crime, when a voice cracks through our moment like a spark.
“Yes, Coach?”
A man in an NHL hoodie is standing at the edge of the ice, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. “What are you doing out here? Get your ass to the locker room. Now.”
Easton exhales hard as if he suddenly remembered what he’s supposed to be doing here in the first place, gaze flicking apologetically to mine. He rakes a hand through his hair and gives me a bashful smile.
“Sorry.”
Then he’s gone, skating away without another word, disappearing into the tunnel.
I stand there, my body still wired, my pulse hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Sorry.
What the hell is he sorry for? That he’s ditching me? That he didn’t kiss me? That he DIDN’T ASK ME TO PROM?!
Does this mean he isn’t going to? This was the perfect opportunity!
It was part of our deal!
He promised the promposal was coming.
And as incredible as it feels being with him, part of me can’t help but wonder: What on earth is he waiting for?