Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
ANNIKA
The ice reflects soft blue light beneath our skates and Parker’s hands are warm on my waist with no echoes or distractions.
Just the low hum of the cooling system and a quiet stretch of ice beneath our feet.
For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no need to run or hide.
It’s only us standing in the space committing to each other.
He walks over to the door and clicks the deadbolt, and lowers the lights.
“What’re you doing? Did you rent it out?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
Parker leans casually against the boards but the heat in his eyes is anything but casual.
“Figured we deserved one place where no one’s watching our every move.”
My heart squeezes. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”
“I need you to know how much I missed you this past week. I want to be together, not for a hot minute but for a cool lifetime,” he jokes.
I glance up at him, and his eyes have already settled on mine. His look, focused, steady, and intense sends a ripple through me like the ripples at the lake on his family farm.
It’s not desire, it’s something softer.
He sets his phone on the board and grabs my hand. “Skate with me.” The music starts, a love song. Then two.
“Is this your idea of a grand gesture?”
“Yeah.”
We hold hands while we glide around the ice, unhurried. He stops to kiss me several times. I love being on the ice with Parker and sharing the ice with the man I love. For a moment, everything else fades away.
No past.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just the rhythm of our blades cutting clean lines into the ice.
Parker stays close. Not showing off. Not pushing.
“You can try to impress me,” I say after a slow circle.
He shrugs, “Maybe I like watching you lead.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
I push off harder, spinning once then again, letting physics carry me before slowing. When I face him again, he’s closer and my breath catches.
“Sometimes it kills me thinking we could’ve already had a home, babies and Sunday dinners if I’d been smart enough to chase you sooner.”
The words hit deeper than anything he’s ever said because it means he really does love me. They’re not mere words. He loves me. His hand finds mine before I can sink into my thoughts.
Warm.
Gentle.
Strong.
Something shifts and the air changes. The distance between us disappears. His hand slides to my waist, slow and deliberate, like he's giving me time to stop him.
But I don’t want to. I want to change my memories of the ice to something loving and good.
My hands grip his shirt as I tilt my head up.
“This is the best therapy session I’ve ever had,” I murmur.
His lips hook into a knowing smile. “Is this your first session?” he asks.
Somehow I answer with a scratchy voice. “Yes. I never…”
“Promise me you’ll tell me when you need me to carry the load?”
That’s all it takes. I don't wait for him. I grab his face, pulling him to mine. And when our lips meet, it's slow and testing, like we’re both checking that this isn’t some simulation. Making sure it's real.
The kiss isn’t rushed or frantic. It’s intentional.
His hand slides along my back as my fingers curl into his shirt. The chill in the air is replaced by the warmth building between us.
There’s no lingering uncertainty.
Not anymore.
Not after everything.
He breaks the kiss long enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath hot against my lips.
“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.
“I promise. And the same goes for you.” Because I’m not running from him or the trial. Not from the new beginning we’ve created.
His thumb brushes along my jaw, slow and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
“Good,” he says, as he kisses my jaw and then down the column of my neck.
Our lips overlap in gentle pecks and the ice holds us in place while everything else shifts.
His large hands tighten around me, splaying across my back, lifting me just enough that I instinctively wrap my legs around his back, locking my blades into each other.
He balances us while he skates with long strides, without breaking the kiss.
A quiet laugh escapes my mouth. “Show-off,” I whisper.
“You love it,” he mumbles back.
More than I ever expected or planned.
For once, I’m not trying to control anything. Not analyzing every outcome. Instead, I’m just feeling his love.
We drift toward the center of the rink, slowing until we’re barely moving, caught somewhere between motion and stillness.
I tilt my face to him again. There’s something in his eyes that’s new to me.
Not just desire.
Not just affection.
Something deeper.
It settles in my chest and stays there.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” And I mean what I’m saying. Because this isn’t about forgetting my past or pretending it didn’t shape me. It’s about choosing to be happy.
Choosing him.
Choosing this.
He leans in, pressing a softer kiss to my lips this time, slower, steadier, like a promise.
When we finally pull back, I rest my forehead against his lips, smiling.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asks.
Home? No, I want more of this.
With my heart pounding, I run my finger over his bottom lip and he puckers up, pressing his mouth to my finger.
“Oh, okay.”
He loosens his grip on me, like he’s afraid to hold too tight, and gently sets me back on my feet. For a second, he just stands there, jaws working, like he’s choosing his next words carefully—like they matter more than anything else he’s ever said.
His hand drags through his hair before disappearing into his pocket.
“To our home,” he says quietly.
The words don’t land all at once—they settle, piece by piece, until my brows pull together and my heart starts beating a little too fast.
“Our home?”
He exhales, almost like he’s bracing himself, then pulls something from his pocket. When he opens his hand, a purple key rests against his palm.
“This is for you,” he says, softer now. “A key to our house.”
My throat tightens.
“Our house?” The words barely make it out as I search his face, looking for hesitation, doubt—anything that says this isn’t real. “Parker O’Ryan… are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I am.” His voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it—something raw.
“I know I didn’t handle things right. I was blindsided, and I let that turn into something you didn’t deserve.
” His eyes lock on mine. “But I’m here now.
Not halfway. Not when it’s easy. I want to be here for all of it… for you, with you.”
The stitches holding my heart together tighten as my pulse kicks up. I don’t deserve this man.
“I want it to be my job to make sure you wake up happy,” he adds, stepping closer again. “And go to bed satisfied.”
A shaky laugh escapes me, and my hands come up to cradle his face, pulling him down just enough that our breaths mix.
“And what about in between?” I whisper.
His mouth curves, that spark I love coming back to life.
“I’ll feed you, watch game shows with you, show up at margarita night to drive you home, take you fishing, go skinny dipping…” His voice drops, eyes darkening just a touch. “Steal kisses whenever I want and play one-on-one anytime you think you can beat me.”
My lips brush his as I smile. “You’re very confident.”
“I have to be,” he murmurs.
He lifts the key again, holding it between us, his fingers steady even if the rest of him isn’t.
“Take it.”
I study him—this man who challenged me at every turn in the beginning, who trusted me, who broke me open, walked away, and found his way back with something stronger.
“Hmm…” I take the key, pressing it lightly to my lips. “This sounds like a very good arrangement for me.” I glance down at it, turning it between my fingers. “Why is it purple?”
His grin turns almost boyish.
“Because the first day I met you in college, you were wearing a purple t-shirt,” he says. Then, softer, more intimate, “And the first time we were together… you were wearing purple.”
My breath catches.
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything about you.”
The world tilts just slightly.
He watches me, something uncertain slipping through for the first time.
“So… are you going to keep me waiting?” he asks. “Will you move in?”
I don’t hesitate.
I jump—skates and all—wrapping myself around him, laughter breaking free.
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
His arms whip around me, like he was ready for it.
“You will?” he asks, almost disbelieving.
I pull back just enough to look at him.
“Did you honestly think I’d say no?”
Something in his expression softens—relief, maybe even a little disbelief.
“I didn’t know,” he admits quietly. “With everything… Mila, the new charges, everything coming back—I thought maybe I waited too long to show you I was still here.” His thumb brushes along my cheek. “That I want to be here for you.”
My heart swells.
“Then don’t wait anymore,” I whisper.
I press the key into my palm, grounding myself in the weight of its meaning.
He guides me up against the board, his hands skating over my face. “No more waiting, no more second-guessing our feelings.”
We step out, onto the rubber mat, holding hands. We put on our blade covers and he leads me into the locker room where Parker undresses me, slow and purposeful. Then he undresses himself.
I don’t expect it when he pulls his jersey out of his hockey bag. “Wear this.” He holds it up in front of me. Number 80, P. O’Ryan.
“This is all I’ve wanted in life—the woman I love wearing my jersey.”
He slips it over my head, methodical and slow. My mouth hurts from smiling so hard. “If you liked me wearing your t-shirt, what does wearing your jersey do to you?”
“Let me show you.”
And he does. He makes love to me in the locker room. It’s so slow and sensual from against the lockers to the wooden benches to sitting on the edge of bathroom sink. “I love seeing my number draped over your chest and back.”
As always Parker makes sure that my pleasure comes first and often before he grunts and lets out a deep guttural growl and pumping into me.
I play with his damp hair as he collapses on me and rolls us on our sides. I wipe the hair off his forehead and say, “I love watching you come inside me.”
He reaches for a thin, scratchy towel and carefully cleans us up like even this deserves tenderness.
“Let’s go home.”
Home.