Chapter 21 #2
Jefferson has big plans for the day and is taking me to the arena to show me the rink. I get it–there’s nothing I love more than showing off the stage right before a concert. It feels like a second home–something you want to share with a person you care about.
And caring about Jefferson Parks seems to be easier and easier to do.
By the time we make it there, I’ve got caffeine warming my veins. It’s just him and me. No crowd. No flashing cameras. Just quiet ice.
Jefferson pulls two pairs of skates out of his bag with ease, tossing me a pair that looks practically brand new. “These should fit. Twyler bought them when she was working with the team. Wore them twice before she gave up and stuck with her sneakers.”
I laugh, plopping onto the bench to tug them on. “Perfect. Let’s hope I don’t break an ankle.”
God, Madison, and everyone else associated with the tour would kill me.
“You won’t,” he says firmly, crouching down to help tighten the laces on one boot. His big hands make quick work of the knots, and for some reason, that simple act, him kneeling at my feet, making sure my skates are secure, sends a wave of heat straight through me. “I won’t let you.”
He puts on his own skates with incredible speed, and when we step onto the ice, it’s like stepping into another world.
The place smells faintly of cold metal and rubber, the boards echo every scrape of the blades, and the ice looks impossibly smooth, like glass.
I immediately cling to the wall, my legs threatening mutiny.
Jefferson’s laugh is so loud it echoes through the rafters.
“Not funny!” I scold.
“It’s hilarious,” he counters, easily gliding to me and prying my death grip off the boards. “Come on, Angel. Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” I grumble, wobbling as he pulls me toward the middle, “but my body isn’t so sure.”
He grins, cocky as ever, pulling me flush against him so I can feel the strength of his chest beneath my hands. “That’s okay. You can fall into me.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flutter, and suddenly I’m more worried about melting through the ice than actually falling.
Last night was amazing. Hanging out at the bar with his friends, the naughty things we did in room 110.
After that, we went back to the Manor and he showed me his room–his bed–and it was perfection.
Now, he skates backward with infuriating ease, dragging me forward with him.
For someone who spends their nights doing dance routines and choreography, I’m stiff as a board, walking more than gliding, but soon I’m laughing too hard to care.
It’s ridiculous, and fun, and the first time in forever I don’t feel like I’m performing for anyone but myself.
“You’re actually not terrible,” he admits after a few wobbly laps. “Why am I not surprised?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that everything you attempt to do is a step higher than everyone else.” His smirk softens, eyes flicking down to my mouth. He spins me carefully, catching me by the hips before I can slip. “You’re special.”
My cheeks heat despite the cold. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs, tugging me into a slow circle, his breath misting in the air. “But I think I’m falling ridiculously hard for you.”
The sincerity in his voice knocks the wind out of me. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world–me in my borrowed skates, him holding me steady on the ice that’s his second home.
Of course, that’s when the door bangs open.
“Parks!” A gruff voice echoes across the rink. “What the hell are you—”
Jefferson stiffens, mutters, “Shit.”
An older man stomps onto the ice in battered skates, hands planted on his hips. “You can’t just–” Then he sees me, and everything about his face changes. His jaw drops. “Holy hell. You’re Ingrid Flockton.”
“You know who Ingrid Flockton is?” he asks, shocked.
“I have a thirteen-year-old daughter, Parks, of course I know who the biggest pop star on Earth is.” He says it like Jefferson is the biggest dumbass on earth.
His gaze darts back to me, and he thrusts out his hand.
“I’m Syd Bryant, coach here at Wittmore.
” Then he lowers his voice. “Are you seriously here with this knucklehead?”
“Nice to meet you,” I shake his hand and then wobble a bit. Jefferson doesn’t move an inch, holding onto me tight while I cling to him like a baby deer on ice. “And yes, I’m here with Jefferson.”
Coach Bryant shakes his head, incredulous at the pairing. “My daughter is a huge fan. Knows every one of your songs. I don’t usually do this, but… would you mind…?”
He fumbles for his phone, looking almost sheepish.
Jefferson mutters under his breath, “Unbelievable,” but doesn’t move his arm from around my waist as I nod.
“Of course,” I say, smiling.
He shoves the phone at Jefferson, who has to release me for a moment to take the picture. I manage not to fall as we grin at the camera.
“Thank you.” He slides the phone back in his pocket. “You just made me father of the year.”
“I’m sure it’s more than the photo,” I tell him, earning me another grin.
“You two have fun,” he says, but shoots Jefferson a look. “Don’t you fuck this up, hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Coach Bryant skates off the ice, and Jefferson shakes his head. “Only you could turn my coach catching me breaking the rules into a fan meet-and-greet.”
I grin back at him, heart still racing from the glide of his hands on my waist. “You’re welcome.
” I’m still laughing when the thought nudges at me.
It’s probably the worst time to bring it up–skating around like we’re in some cheesy rom-com montage–but the words spill out anyway.
“Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you. ”
Jefferson tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“There’s a fundraiser in a few weeks. For my foundation. I go every year—it’s kind of a family affair. Black tie, big auction, lots of champagne and awkward speeches.” I skate a half-circle around him and stop, nerves creeping in. “I wanted to know if you’d go with me.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You want to see me in a tux, huh?”
I roll my eyes, heat crawling up my cheeks. “That wasn’t the primary reason I was asking. But sure, Parks, walking in with some eye candy never hurts.”
He chuckles and skates toward me, wrapping his hand around my back as he glides me back until we brush the boards. His arms bracket my head, caging me in with that ridiculous mix of cocky and tender only he can pull off.
“I think it would be fun,” I continue, heart thudding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “You could meet some of my family and friends, but… it would be public. Lots of cameras. It would be viewed as a statement.” I swallow. “If you’re ready for that.”
For a moment, his expression softens, the humor melting into something deeper. He leans in, his breath warm against my cheek. “Ingrid, I’d wear a damn tux every night if it meant I got to stand next to you. Escorting you for a good cause? That’s not work–it’s an honor.”
The world tilts a little, the way it always does when he says things that cut straight past my defenses. I rest my hands on his chest, steadying myself on solid muscle and steady heartbeat. “Careful, Parks. You keep talking like that and I might start believing you.”
His lips graze the corner of my mouth, teasing. “That’s the idea.”
When we step out of the arena, the quiet, sweet bubble we’d built on the ice pops.
“Ingrid! Over here!”
“Give us a smile, Ingrid!”
“Jefferson! What’s it like dating the most famous pop star in the world?”
“Selfie? Please, just one selfie—”
They’re everywhere–press, fans, cameras, phones held high. It’s a wall of noise and flashing lights, the air thick with the sharp tang of perfume, coffee, and winter air trapped under too many bodies.
The crush closes in fast, microphones thrust forward, cell phones shoving into my face. A pen nearly jabs my cheek. Someone yanks on my sleeve. A camera flash blinds me white.
My heart races, panic rising in my throat. I can barely breathe.
And then Jefferson moves.
His whole body shifts, hard and deliberate.
He plants himself in front of me, broad shoulders cutting a path like a shield, arms coming back until he’s wrapped me fully against him.
A fortress of muscle and heat. He doesn’t flinch when someone shouts his name, doesn’t even look at the flashing bulbs. He just keeps his focus on me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low and steady, a sound meant only for me.
The crowd doesn’t stop. “Jefferson! Are you her new boyfriend?”
“Is this for real or just publicity?”
“Ingrid, what about Jake?”
“Back up!” Jefferson snaps, voice rough and commanding, the tone of a man used to being in charge. He tucks me tighter into his side, one hand firm on my hip as if he could haul me straight out of here if he had to. “Give her space.”
But they don’t. They never do.
The flashes keep coming. The questions grow sharper, louder, messier. Everyone’s shouting over one another–“Ingrid, is it true you’re quitting the tour?” “Jefferson, are you sleeping together?” “Ingrid, look over here!”
Hands wave, cameras jab forward, bodies crush closer. My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. The only thing keeping me from unraveling completely is the steady weight of Jefferson’s arm, the way his big frame shields mine, like he’s daring them to try to get through him.
Then it happens.
A man lunges, hand snagging my shirt. There’s a sharp rip of fabric, the neckline tearing down my shoulder. My scream catches in my throat.
Jefferson snaps.
One second, his arm is wrapped around me, the next he’s exploding forward, shoving the guy so hard he crashes to the ground.
His camera cracks against the pavement, the plastic splintering.
All around us, the crowd gasps, stumbling back.
Jefferson’s voice booms over the chaos, raw and furious: “Anyone else want to fuck with me and my girl?”
For a beat, everything stills–just Jefferson, chest heaving, towering over the swarm, eyes blazing like he’ll take on every single one of them if they so much as breathe wrong in my direction.
The tension is disrupted by the sound of wheels screeching to a stop at the curb, horn blaring. The crowd startles, scattering back like pigeons, because whoever’s behind the wheel clearly has zero concern about mowing them down.
The window cranks open, and Coach Bryant leans out, face red and furious. “Get in the car!”
Jefferson doesn’t hesitate. His big hand closes around mine, and he yanks me with him, cutting a path through the stragglers. The door groans as he shoves me up into the cab, then crams himself in after, shoulders so broad he takes up half the space.
The photographers find their nerve again and rush forward, but Coach slams his foot on the gas. Gravel spits. The truck fishtails once before lurching forward, and the mob disappears behind us.
“Thanks, Coach,” Jefferson says, his arm still locked around me, holding me tight against his side like I might shatter.
I can’t stop shaking. My teeth chatter even though I clamp my jaw shut. I focus on breathing in, breathing out, trying not to tip into full-body tremors.
“What can I do?” Jefferson asks quietly, head bent to mine. “What do you need, Angel?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper. It sounds unconvincing, even to me. I feel both men exchange a look over my head, the silence weighted.
“They came out of nowhere,” Coach mutters, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “No one was there when I got to the arena this morning.”
“Same,” Jefferson says, voice tight. “Someone must’ve followed us. Posted about it online.”
“It wasn’t me.” Coach’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, pinning me with a firm look. “I haven’t even told Britt I met you yet.”
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat, trying to steady the tremble in my voice. “It happens.”
“Not at my arena,” Coach grumbles. His jaw ticks, anger simmering under the words. “I called security. They’ll have them cleared out fast.” Then his tone softens, just slightly. “Where do you want me to drop you two?”
Jefferson tilts his head down, steel-gray eyes searching mine. “Want me to call Marv? Get you back to the hotel?”
I shake my head instantly. “No. I want to go back with you. To the Manor.”
His grip tightens on me, protective and possessive all at once. I lean into him as the truck turns toward the Manor, the safe bubble of Jefferson’s world closing around me again, holding onto it for as long as I can.