Chapter 16 #2
I met her stare. “No. I’m asking because I remember exactly how he looked at you.”
A spark moved between us, quick, electric. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, buying time. “And how did I look at him?”
The laugh that wanted to come out felt too bitter. “Like you were trying to forget me.”
The quiet went heavy; even the radiator seemed to hold its breath.
Her throat bobbed once, eyes dark now. “You don’t get to decide what I was trying to forget.”
I leaned forward anyway, elbows on my knees, the space between us shrinking until the scent of her shampoo cut through whatever restraint I had left.
“You’re right. But I saw it, Billie. The way you smiled at him, all light until he touched you, then you froze.
Like your body remembered something it shouldn’t. ”
She blinked slow. “You were watching?”
“Couldn’t help it.”
Her voice dropped, low and sharp. “You always think you're in control, don’t you? Like you can bark an order and the rest of us just skate in formation.”
“Doesn’t look that way now.” My tone came out rough, wider than I meant it.
She pushed the notebook aside, stood up. We were close—too close. The air between us thinned until every exhale felt like a choice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
I searched for the safe answer and couldn’t find it. “Because when he touched your arm, every muscle in me fired like I was on the ice again.”
Her breath hitched—that tiny, betraying sound that gave away more than words.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“I already did.”
The neon from the parking lot sign bled through the blinds, cutting a narrow stripe of red across her cheek. I watched the pulse there jump beneath her skin. Stupid detail to notice. Impossible to un-see.
“You think this fixes anything?” she asked.
“No. But lying sure as hell won’t either.”
She stared back, utterly still. The kind of stillness I’d only seen before a faceoff—every nerve focused, coiled, waiting for the puck to drop.
Neither of us moved. Not for a full heartbeat. Maybe two. My hands closed into fists just to keep from reaching.
Then I did move, slow and deliberate—standing, closing what little distance remained until her breath brushed my jaw.
Her eyes didn’t drop. They dared.
I crossed the line I’d spent weeks pretending didn’t exist.
I took one more step. Too close. The smell of her soap mixed with the faint bite of the rink still clinging to my jacket. The space shrank until my shadow covered hers.
Her knees brushed mine. A quiet, involuntary bump, barely pressure at all, but the touch jolted through me like hitting live wire. She drew in a quick breath, sharp, startled, not scared—just caught off guard. The sound of it tore whatever distance I’d been trying to keep.
I heard my voice before I knew I’d opened my mouth. “Billie.”
Soft, almost a whisper. The name felt different this time. Not a warning, not a slip. It rolled out of me like something sacred, a secret meant only for her.
Her lashes lifted. She didn’t retreat. Didn’t even blink. The way she watched me—it wasn’t a challenge anymore. It was trust. That was the part that undid me. I’d broken every version of that I’d ever been given, yet she kept offering hers without asking for anything in return.
My hand moved before my brain caught up, rising halfway between us, fingers trembling from restraint rather than fear.
I wanted to brush that loose strand of hair off her cheek, tuck it behind her ear, trace the edge of her jaw the way I’d been memorizing it since the first night.
But the motion stalled midway. Hovered there.
Heat radiated between my fingers and her skin. The air carried it like static.
She looked at my hand, then back to me. Our faces were close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath ghosting against my mouth, slow and unsteady. Inches apart. One lean forward and the world would drop out from under us.
“This can’t happen.” The words came out rough, tight in my throat.
Her lips parted, the faintest curve of defiance pulling at the corner. “You keep saying that, and yet...”
Every muscle locked. The breath between us went heavy, waiting for me to decide what kind of man I was going to be in that half-second. The wrong kind—the one I’d always been—or something closer to decent. I couldn’t tell which choice felt harder.
I stepped back instead. The loss of heat hit first, then the realization that I was shaking. Her eyes followed me, unreadable, but the space I’d reclaimed already felt like punishment.
The hallway outside smelled of dust and pine cleaner, too bright after the closeness of her room. My hand found the doorframe, knuckles white around it.
“Get some sleep, Donovan.” My voice sounded foreign, scraped raw.
Before she could answer, I shut the door behind me. The click echoed down the empty corridor, small but final.
Cold air hit like punishment. I kept my head down, boots cutting through slush until the echo of her door faded. The lot was empty except for my truck, half-buried under a crust of snow. I yanked the door open and climbed in, heartbeat still hammering against my ribs.
“Jesus Christ.” The words fogged the window. I slammed the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Didn’t help. All it did was remind me she was still in there, a few hundred feet away, probably pacing the same stretch of floor where I’d nearly lost every ounce of control.
I started the engine, knuckles tight on the wheel. The heater coughed before breathing life. Warm air rolled out and did nothing to thaw what burned lower in me.
I wanted her. Not in the polite, fleeting way a man wants a distraction. I wanted the defiance in her eyes, the pulse in her throat, the way her name tasted like trouble every time I thought it.
If I wasn’t careful, I’d ruin us both. But the truth sat heavy anyway, low and certain—If she opened that door again, I’d go back. And I'd take what I shouldn’t.