Chapter 9 Janie
NINE
Janie
As we head toward the ice rink, snow begins falling in fat, lazy circles that catch in Rourke’s dark hair and dust his shoulders like powdered sugar.
“Hold still.” I reach up without thinking.
The moment my fingers touch his hair, he freezes, like I hit the pause button. His eyes lock on mine, and my stomach does a somersault I definitely did not authorize.
“You know,” he says, “for every snowflake you brush away, seven more are going to land in its place.”
I blink, startled by how close we are. “I know,” I murmur, brushing a few more off his shoulder, because apparently my brain is no longer in charge of my limbs.
Even through his coat, I can feel the shape of him: solid, warm, alarmingly strong. The kind of man who could throw you over his shoulder and make it look effortless.
Not that I’m thinking about that.
Okay. I am thinking about that. Briefly.
But what I should be thinking about is how I just volunteered to fall on my face in front of a man who already thinks I’m some overly cheerful Christmas fanatic.
If I don’t get through this skating thing without making him have some fun, he’s going to have me in his hockey jersey by New Year’s.
He offers a crooked smile that should not be as charming as it is. “Sorry, I’m not used to this kind of attention. Give me a minute to figure out how to accept help gracefully.” He bites his lip playfully. “Fair warning, though—I’m terrible at it.”
“I’m an eternal optimist, remember?” I say. “Which means I’m probably the only person stubborn enough to keep trying.”
As we reach the skate rental, the snow is coming down at a steady clip, making this day even more romantic than it already is. Not that I’m thinking about romance. It’s just hard not to when couples are holding hands, lazily skating circles, like this is some sort of middle school winter dance.
“So when’s the last time you went ice-skating?” Rourke asks.
“Maybe…eight? Nine years old?”
His eyebrows fly up. “Twenty years ago?”
I give him a scathing look. “Thanks for your vote of confidence. And before you tell me it’s like riding a bike…”
“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “Absolutely nothing like riding a bike. Tomorrow you’re going to hurt like you got kicked by a reindeer.”
“Okay, I wasn’t expecting that level of honesty.” I give him a look. “As long as you can keep me from falling.”
One eyebrow lifts skeptically. “You want my help?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m not so stubborn that I won’t accept a hand.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says. “But only if you do me a favor…”
Here it comes. He’s always bargaining for something to put the odds in his favor.
“What?”
“Next lesson is at my rink.” His eyes meet mine. “Just us.”
My pulse bolts at the thought of being alone with him in his element. Only him and a million reasons why this is a bad idea. “First, that sounds suspiciously like you trying to win our bet. And second, there won’t be a next time.”
“You so sure about that?” he says. “Come on, you can’t say your intentions for today were entirely pure. This was all about our little deal.”
He has a point. I absolutely wanted to use the festival to change his mind about Christmas. But clearly that plan backfired, unless watching him do something he loves can somehow salvage this.
“I may want to win,” I admit. “But I also don’t want to disappoint the kids in the pageant. You have to find some joy in Christmas if you’re playing the lead in the show. This isn’t just about me.”
He shifts uncomfortably. For a second, I think maybe I’m finally getting through. “If this is for the kids…” He looks around the rink. “Let’s go make you fall on your butt.”
We rent our skates and find an empty spot on a nearby bench, where we both sit in silence. I’m fumbling with a knot in the laces when Rourke notices me struggling.
“Here, let me help,” he offers.
“Wait, you’re done?”
I stare at his feet in disbelief. Somehow, he’s already put on both skates in the time it’s taken me to get one knot untied.
“How’d you do that so fast?” I ask.
“Practice.” He takes my skate. “I do this every day.” Then he drops to one knee in front of me.
I frown. “What are you doing?” I reach for the skate, but he pulls it just out of reach.
“Let me help.”
“Really not necessary.” I reach for the skate, but he’s faster than me. He holds it out where I can’t reach it without lunging for it.
His mouth quirks. “Janie, am I going to have to hold you down while I put your skate on? Because I’m not above doing it.”
“And you would enjoy it way too much,” I say, then hold my foot out. “Be my guest.”
He picks up my foot much gentler than I’d expect from a man like him.
He slides the skate on before lacing it up in seconds, then reaches for my other foot.
This time, I’m prepared for the rush of heat that comes from his touch and the way he concentrates as he works.
He cradles my ankle, and his fingers brush the bare spot of skin peeking out between my boot and pant leg, sending a rush of pleasure through me.
There’s something incredibly intimate about having this powerful man kneel before me, his dark head bent in concentration over my foot like it’s the most important thing in the world. Nick never would have done this—never would have noticed I needed help, let alone offered it.
Warmth coils in my stomach, and my skin flushes under my sweater.
Maybe it’s just the Christmas festivities.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
“How’s that?” he asks, finally looking up at me. And not until that moment do I realize that we’re almost at eye level with each other. So close I can count his eyelashes, memorizing the perfect curl of each one.
“Janie?” he asks, and the quirk of his mouth tells me he’s noticed I’m staring.
“It’s…um, good,” I stammer, my face growing hot. This gorgeous man kneeling in front of me, tying my skate, looking at me like that, is making me think I should probably run the other direction.
Except I can’t. Because I’m in skates.
He sets my foot down carefully, like something you would only do for someone if you cared—not for someone who’s your Christmas rival.
He stands. “Ready?”
“You go first. I’ll watch.” I slide on my mittens.
“Come on, Bennett.” He extends his hand. “I thought this was couples’ day. Which means you can’t let me skate alone.”
I stare at his outstretched hand like it might be a trap. Taking it feels risky.
“I promise I don’t bite,” he says with a smirk, suggesting he absolutely would, under the right circumstances.
I reluctantly slide my hand into his, but he immediately shakes his head.
“Mittens off.”
“But my hands will freeze.”
“I can’t get a good grip otherwise.” His fingers find the hem of my left mitten. “This needs to go.”
What happens next should be simple—removing winter gear for the sake of practicality. But nothing with Rourke is ever that straightforward. He peels the mitten off like he’s unwrapping a present—slowly, intentionally, and with an absurd amount of eye contact.
The wool slides away from my fingers easily. When he tosses it onto my lap, a small smirk plays at his lips.
“Other hand.” He waves his fingers.
I hold it out, muttering, “I feel like I should be tipping you for this level of customer service.”
“Well, I aim to please,” he says with a smirk, stripping off the mitten before tossing it onto the growing pile of wool casualties.
“There.” But he doesn’t let go of my hand. He brings my palms to his lips and blows hot air over them.
It’s the kind of move that would be totally normal if we were, say, dating. Or an actual couple. But since we are neither of those things, my brain doesn’t know what to make of this.
Not only are my hands warm, but my entire body has basically turned into a toasted marshmallow.
“Tell me”—I lift an eyebrow—“do you always undress your dates like this, one mitten at a time?”
His lips hitch into a grin that should be illegal. “Only when they’re being stubborn.” He pulls me to my feet so I’m suddenly inches from him. “And only when it matters.”
“For what?”
He leans in just enough to make me sweat. “For keeping you safe. That’s my job now, Bennett. Don’t forget it.”
My heart does a swoop that feels wildly inappropriate for a man I officially do not trust.
He’s just being helpful. There’s nothing between us.
Even though we’re at a Christmas festival. With twinkle lights and falling snow. And I’m pretty sure Nat King Cole is crooning in the background.
But nope, definitely not romantic. I am immune.
Then I step onto the ice, and my skates immediately betray me, making me flail like a cartoon character on banana peels. I launch myself at the wall like a wobbly baby giraffe. Graceful. Elegant. Everything men find irresistible.
Rourke glides past me, turning to skate backward with an effortlessness that makes me irate. This is his world and it’s honestly obscene how good he looks doing it.
“You need help?” he asks, amusement in his voice.
“I’m fine,” I lie, releasing the wall just long enough to wobble dangerously before grabbing it again. “Just getting my bearings.”
He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the brown flecks in his dark eyes. “Janie. You have to let go of the wall.”
“I know that.”
“Then why aren’t you?” Rourke asks.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I release my death grip on the wall. The moment I do, he’s there, his hands capturing mine as he skates backward. For a heart-stopping second, I pitch backward, nearly falling, before everything steadies and I’m gliding across the ice with help.
“See?” he says, a hint of pride in his tone. “I knew you could do it. Just keep your eyes on me.”
Eyes on him? Yeah, that’s…not the issue.
Because he’s very easy to look at. Unfortunately.
His cheeks are flushed from the cold while his thumbs—yes, his thumbs—keeps brushing across my knuckles in a very distracting way.
We skate like that for several minutes, Rourke guiding me around the rink while I try not to think too hard about the way he makes me feel safe even though he’s clearly not safe for my heart.
“Look at you,” he says. “You’re skating. If I let go, I think you’ll stay up.”
“That’s a very generous interpretation of what might happen.”
“Hey, you’re upright, aren’t you? That’s more than you were doing a few minutes ago.” His smirk widens. “Besides, I like having you depend on me.”
Without warning, he pulls me to the middle, out of the pathway of the other skaters.
“You know what I’m thinking?” he asks, his hands sliding to my hips and holding me still.
“What?” I ask, swallowing.
His hands anchor me in place, and the heat from his touch seeps through my coat. “That this is the first time all day you’ve looked at me like I’m not the enemy.”
He’s right. Somewhere between arriving here and this moment, something has shifted between us. The walls I’ve built, the reasons I shouldn’t trust him—they’re all still there, but they feel less solid now. Like a gingerbread house ready to collapse.
“Maybe you’re not,” I whisper.
His grip on my hips tightens, spiraling heat through me, and for a moment we’re just standing still in the middle of the rink while the world spins around us.
“You have a snowflake…” He reaches toward the tip of my nose. “Right here.” With a slow swipe of his thumb, he brushes it away gently.
“And here.” His thumb traces across my cheek, somehow both cold and burning against my skin. His eyes scan my face before dropping to my lips and lingering there.
“Janie.”
The panic that should flood through me doesn’t come. Instead, there’s only want, steady and undeniable.
My heart picks up before I hear somebody yell, “Watch out!”
A man careens toward us, clearly out of control. Rourke immediately pulls me flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around me as he spins me out of danger, shielding me with his body.
The man sails past harmlessly.
“You okay?” I hear Rourke whisper against the shell of my ear.
It takes me a second to realize he’s staring at me. I’m still pressed against his body, still feeling his heart beating against mine. “How did you…?”
“Instinct,” he says. “I’m a defenseman. It’s my job to protect you.”
We’re both breathing hard, and I realize that if we hadn’t been interrupted, I might have kissed him—and that’s exactly what I’m trying not to let happen today.
Because he’s the Christmas-hating hockey player who represents everything I’ve been trying to avoid.
And I’m definitely not in a place in my life to play around with a man who thinks commitment is a bad word.
“We should…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Because despite what I know, it still kills me to step away.
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “We should.”
But neither of us moves, like we know what we need to do, but don’t want this moment to end.
“Come on,” he says finally, taking my hand again. “Let’s get you back to solid ground.”
“The snow is getting worse by the minute.” We skate back toward the exit. “Do you want to leave?”
I look around at all the things we haven’t seen yet, all the reasons we could stay just a little longer. “Do you?”
“Not really,” he admits.
He didn’t want to come today. Now he doesn’t want to leave.
This should feel like a victory; instead, it feels like I’m standing at a crossroads.
I’m supposed to be teaching him to love Christmas. That’s the deal. It’s safe. But the way he’s looking at me right now? That’s not about Christmas at all.
I can play it safe, keep this about the pageant and protect my heart.
Or I can take the risk and let myself feel something for a man who could hurt me just like Nick did.
Either way, I’m scared of what I might lose.