Chapter 1 #2
I took a bath, tossing in one of those fizzle bombs Erica had given me with a happy ‘for a crisis day, darling.’ I let the hot water do its thing: steam rising, tension melting.
It didn’t fix my life, but it softened the edges.
By the time I stepped out, the idea of pampering myself didn’t seem so ridiculous.
Standing at the mirror, I dabbed a little color onto my cheeks the way I usually did for weddings or job interviews. The shimmer caught just right across my cheekbones, making me feel almost sparkly.
I stared at my reflection. My eyes had always been my one brag.
Green-blue with sharp little bursts around the pupil, catlike in their glassy color.
Their slanted shape stood out above my high cheekbones, the part I’d inherited from my Apache grandmother.
Out of three generations, I was the only one who’d gotten the shape; Sam’s were the same color, but wide and even.
And yet I still looked frustratingly pale, as if the maker ran out of melanin pigment mid-project.
That contrast alone had snagged attention more than once, not that it ever led to the type of fireworks they promise in books. One in particular: Vince Silvio. Getting engaged to him had been a mistake, and being the one left behind…that part was still a paper cut.
I took a breath. Today had already knocked me flat; I didn’t need a mirror dragging me through old chapters, too.
I slipped into my prettiest boosting jeans and a soft, fitted top, then glanced out the bedroom window just as a car pulled up.
My heart gave a little tap-tap behind my ribs, and nerves I hadn’t felt in a while showed up out of nowhere.
I grabbed my purse, took a breath, and stepped outside.
Andrew was just reaching the bottom porch steps, his sleeves rolled up, his easy smile already in place, looking effortlessly charming.
“I figured this might be more memorable than a simple dessert somewhere,” Andrew said later, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as we parked beside the glowing glass building of the city’s hockey arena. “I assume you don’t mind cold places, since you’ve survived law offices.”
A wry laugh escaped me. He was right. Dinner had been a pleasant surprise at a cocktail bar with unexpectedly good food, and Andrew actually knew how to ask questions that didn’t feel like a cross-examination.
“So, you love hockey?” I asked as we stepped onto the sidewalk, eyes fixed on the home of the Tahoe West Panthers.
Andrew rounded the car to meet me, a shrug in his shoulders. “Not a die-hard fan, but the after-party can be fun.”
I raised a brow, intrigued.
“Skating,” he explained, nodding toward the arena entrance where a sign read: Public Skate, 9:30–11:00. Couples, giggling teens, and tired-looking parents trickled through the doors, a Friday night parade of hopeful fun.
He wasn’t into hockey, and strangely, that gave me a wave of relief. Vince, my ex-fiancé, had been a hardcore fan and used to drag me to the games. I pursed my lips.
Andrew glanced at me. “You hate the ice?”
“Oh no.” I recovered, coming back to the present. “I haven’t skated since forever.”
“Perfect. We’ll wobble around newborn-giraffe style together,” he promised, his eyes twinkling.
I gave him a playful look. “Are you sure you’re not secretly a figure skater trying to hustle me?”
“Nope. Basketball all the way,” he chuckled, offering his hand. “I’m here for the comedy.”
I hesitated for half a second, then took his outstretched hand. Why not? Life had already blindsided me today; might as well embrace a little slapstick.
The lobby carried that crisp chill I remembered from winter trips at Lake Tahoe. Glossy Panthers posters and players frozen mid-shot lined the wall.
“Ever been here before?” Andrew asked as we laced up.
“Two or three times, a few years ago. Besides that, I’ve only driven by.”
The memory of Vince, impatiently trying to explain the offside rules, the blue lines, and power plays, while my eyes glazed over, flickered, then faded.
With him, hockey had felt like homework I was failing.
Funny how now I was more willing to literally fall with someone I barely knew than I’d ever been to get into my fiancé’s passion.
I mentally slapped myself.
Don’t compare, Mel.
Andrew smiled, easily. “They open the rink after home games. It’s one of those popular things, and it seems the Zamboni guy’s a legend. I read Yelp reviews.”
I grinned. “You researched this?”
“I wanted to impress the office assistant.”
“Ex-office assistant,” I corrected, standing up and immediately teetering like a clumsy flamingo.
He caught my elbow with surprising speed. “Sorry to hear that. I understand the firm merged. Is that—?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly, not wanting to bring the gloom of my jobless situation into our wobbly date. “It’s fine.”
Thankfully, he took the hint as we shuffled toward the rink.
The lights were soft, blue-toned, making the ice shimmer in a winter-snow-globe way. Disco music played overhead. When we stepped onto the ice, I gripped the wall as if it were a life raft in a very windy ocean.
Andrew wasn’t kidding; he was no skating prodigy either. We slid, yelped, bumped into each other, and laughed more out of panic than charm.
It was comfortable company, without the pressure of electric-charged butterflies. It was nice. A version of nice that kept your pulse steady and unshaken, and part of me, the still-cautious part, stayed curled inward. Was this steady ‘nice’ who I was now?
I started to find my rhythm, managing somewhat fluid little glides—
“Do it! Do it!” A chant erupted from a small group of teens at the center of the rink.
A kid in an orange beanie launched into what was either a pirouette or some kind of ice-based trust fall. He spun out, skidding across the ice straight toward us.
“Watch out—!” Andrew reached for my arm, but the kid clipped his side, then crashed into me.
Pain flared in my elbows, ankles, and hips after one chaotic tumble.
Staff rushed onto the ice, pulling us and the others to our feet. Voices clashed—too many at once with reprimand and concerns—as security closed in on the teens. Someone led me off the rink into a small room behind the skate rentals.
My ankle throbbed with a dull ache, and my head buzzed, a lingering echo of the collision. I sat in the back room, ice pressed to both my foot and the side of my head, taking slow, deep breaths to calm the racing pulse that hadn’t settled.
After a while, voices approached from the entrance, low and concerned.
“Frank, what happened? I was leaving when the music stopped, and I saw some commotion,” a man asked.
“Teenagers, man. Making bets, playing chicken on the ice.”
I recognized Frank’s voice then, the older man who’d asked someone to escort me in here.
He stepped into the room, followed by another man. I straightened as much as my bruised body would allow.
“Feeling better?” Frank asked gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I lifted the ice from my temple, testing a small turn of my head. “No problem there.”
The second man, taller, broader, stepped forward as I adjusted the ice on my ankle. I felt both men glance down as I lifted the pack. For some unknown reason, I kept my gaze fixed on my ankle, a sharp awareness preventing me from looking up.
“That’s not too bad,” I said, trying my best impression of ‘totally fine’ while smoothing my sock with fingers that were absolutely not trembling under their scrutiny.
“Let me see.” The second man’s voice rumbled through me.
He crouched in front of me, confidently taking my ankle in his hands. His touch was cool and sure, making me wonder if he moonlighted as a twisted ankle doctor. His fingers moved gently along the joint with the kind of certainty that made you trust him before you had time to wonder why.
“It’s not bad now, but it’ll swell,” he said, fingers pressing lightly. “Keep it elevated and ice it. Twenty on, twenty off.”
I held my breath. His smooth touch, the calm in his voice, and the care he showed—they all steadied more than my ankle.
When I finally looked up, his eyes were already on mine—brown, intense, with the heat of a July sidewalk. The perfect color of hot cocoa on a winter’s day, unhurried, almost as if he knew I’d look away first. My heart did a triple flip and landed in a puddle.
“Mel?”
I flinched slightly at the sound of Andrew’s voice. A jarring reminder that I was, in fact, on a date, still sprawled on a makeshift medical bench, and still smelling faintly of ice rink and embarrassment.
He stepped into the room.
“Are you with her?” Frank asked him.
“Yeah,” Andrew replied, sounding bewildered. “They thought I was one of the teens and pulled me off the ice. It took a minute to clear it up.”
Frank gave a short laugh. “Well, get her home so she can ice that ankle before it looks like a Thanksgiving turkey.”
The two men stepped out.
Air rushed out of me in a shaky stream; I hadn’t even realized I’d been clamping down since he touched my ankle.
“What a crash to end a date night,” I said to Andrew, still feeling the ghost of the other man’s hands against my skin. It was ridiculous.
We left the arena and started the drive back to my place.
Andrew cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled between us. “This wasn’t my idea of a date—getting you knocked down. I wanted it to be fun, especially after you lost your job.”
I kept my eyes on the blur of streetlights, unsure how to answer.
“I used to think Tahoe was all hockey and ice skating. Turns out, there’s a whole underground of people doing cool stuff.
On my way back from that corner area where security took us, I passed a post looking for someone to help run youth clinics, teaching kids how not to faceplant on the ice. I thought of you.”
I made a noncommittal sound. My ankle throbbed and my head pounded. The last thing I wanted to think about was résumés and cover letters. But the words lodged somewhere I couldn’t quite shake.
What a day—losing my job and getting physically knocked on my ass. A constellation of bruises was already blooming beneath my jeans, but none of that stayed with me.
Not the job. Not the fall. Not Andrew.
It was the other man.
The one whose warm chocolate eyes locked onto mine, piercing straight through me. That man had exposed me.
I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes.
Way to go, Mel, thinking about a stranger while your date sits three feet away, probably wondering if he should take you to the nearest cold-plunge spa.
Maybe I’d hit my head harder than I thought, or maybe it was easier to blame the ice than admit that what lingered had nothing to do with bruises and everything to do with a man who touched my ankle as if he knew how to take care of things.