Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
JULIETTE
It’s been two days since I saw Aaron at work.
Two days since we texted.
Two days since he promised he’s going to make things right with Declan.
Ugh, my brother.
If I have to hear one more time from Blaire what a mess his personal life is, I might scream.
Yes, he cheated.
Yes, he didn’t seem to care about anyone but himself in the situation.
Yes, he deserves for someone to put him in his place.
But this cryptic text—
Meet me at the rink. After hours.
—feels like a new level of drama for Declan. So much so that I almost don’t go. Why should I? He and I have so much unfinished business.
Instead, I find myself turning into the practice facility parking lot at exactly 8:00 p.m., because that’s when I was told to be here and, apparently, I am incapable of ignoring my brother, even when I probably should.
The lot is nearly empty when I pull in.
It’s eerie.
The giant gray-and-blue Ice Wolves banner stretches across the front of the building, flapping lazily in the wind. The whole place looks abandoned.
It’s dark, no players walking to their cars, no security directing traffic, no people milling about. No fans hanging around the entrance for autographs, no sense of life.
It feels so wrong.
The rink is never this quiet. Even on off-days there’s someone inside—trainers, interns, equipment guys.
Tonight?
Nothing.
I inhale the scent of ice and sweat that’s still there, but it’s faint, like an echo of itself. No music pumping through the speakers. No smell of popcorn or stale beer.
Just the hum of the Zamboni.
I follow the sound toward the rink and push through the heavy doors to the stands, standing at the top and looking over the arena.
There are lights on over the ice.
And there’s the big, blue Zamboni, circling slowly, smoothing the surface in lazy, methodical lines.
I scan the arena for my brother, stepping down the concrete steps to the rows of empty stands, arms folded against the chill. The air is cold enough to bite at my cheeks.
“Declan?”
The Zamboni makes one more pass, then slows.
Stops.
The driver—an older man with a gray mustache, thick jacket, and Carhartt overalls—kills the engine. The sudden silence feels enormous. He climbs down, wipes his hands on a rag, and looks directly at me.
“Juliette?” he calls.
My stomach drops nervously. “Yes?”
He jerks his chin toward the ice. “This way.”
“Excuse me?”
He gestures again, completely unfazed by my confusion. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Curiouser and curiouser…
I glance around: No Declan. No figure, skating at center ice like some brooding hockey prince.
“Do I need skates?” I ask, because apparently this is happening.
The man chuckles. “Nope.”
He leads me directly onto the rink. The cold is colder down here, and I wish I’d worn a thicker coat. Or—I wish I’d worn a coat, period.
And then I see it.
At center ice.
A table.
A literal round table with two chairs, sitting on the freshly smoothed surface like the world’s most impractical dinner reservation.
A white tablecloth.
Two place settings.
Wine glasses. Wine.
A single candle glowing in the center.
I stop walking and almost fall on my ass. “You have got to be freaking kidding me.”
The Zamboni driver grins, giddy with delight that he’s in on a secret. “Watch your step,” he says, offering me his arm like he’s leading me to a debutante ball.
“How is this even allowed?” I mutter as he helps me onto the ice.
It’s not slippery the way I expect—there’s some kind of thin rubber matting laid down in a path toward the table.
I feel like I’ve wandered into a proposal video on TikTok, except I am not getting engaged—I’m getting emotionally ambushed.
We reach the table. The candle flickers. The arena lights overhead cast everything in an ethereal glow.
It’s beautiful.
It’s ridiculous.
The driver pulls out a chair for me.
“Alright,” I say, heart thudding. “So, where is he?”
The driver gives me a look that’s almost apologetic.
Then he nods toward the far end of the rink.
I turn.
And my stomach drops straight through the ice.
It’s not Declan walking out of the tunnel. It’s Aaron.
Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?
He’s not in a suit. He’s in crisp dark jeans and a navy sweater, hands shoved into his pockets. His hair is damp as if he was in the locker room, showering. Several fresh cuts mar the skin at his neck from nicking himself when he shaved.
He stops a few feet away.
And suddenly, I’m left in the middle of a professional hockey rink with the man who both made and ruined my entire week.
“This is whackadoodle,” I say under my breath.
Aaron huffs out a low rumble.
“Was this your plan to get me to show up?”
He nods. “Affirmative.”
Hmph. I have to give him props for that.
“Fine, I’ll admit it. I’m impressed.”
He pulled a fast one over on me.
My mind tries to sort out how that could be possible when the invitation came from my brother. How is it feasible that Aaron is here in his place?
I narrow my eyes at him. “Where is Declan?”
Aaron’s mouth twitches. “Busy.” He gestures to the table. “Would you sit with me?”
My chin notches. “Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you have a choice.”
The arena hums around us, cavernous and cold. The candle in the center of the table flickers as if threatening to go out if we dawdle long enough.
I glance over his shoulder.
The Zamboni driver is not gone.
He’s at the far end of the rink, leaning against the machine like a man who didn’t clear his evening for rink maintenance and is now here for drama.
“Is he on payroll for this?” I murmur.
Aaron doesn’t turn around. “He’s been compensated for his discretion.”
I blink. “You paid him?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I tipped generously.”
Wow. Looks like every man in existence is conspiring against me.
Lucky me.
Aaron pulls out the chair in front of him, palm up, motioning for me to take a seat.
Grudgingly, I place myself in the chair. It scrapes faintly against the protective flooring laid over the ice. I glance around again to see if there are any details I haven’t caught, but things appear as they should be, quiet and deserted.
Oddly enough, this is the most intimate and vulnerable I’ve felt with him.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” I state plainly.
The sentence hangs between us.
He doesn’t so much as react. “That’s fair.”
Fair.
That almost irritates me more than if he’d argued.
I swallow and sit back in my chair, crossing my arms to let him know I’m not falling for his handsome face, his deep voice, or his apologies so easily.
Ha!
“One of my conditions,” I remind him smartly, “was that you make things right with my brother.”
The dimple appears in his cheek. “I know.”
I stare at him.
“And?”
“And… I did.”
“You did?” I blink at him several times, growing more and more frustrated the longer we sit here in the cold, side-stepping the problem. “Could you be any more vague.”
Aaron chuckles, reaching for the wine bottle on the table. He pulls the cork out and pours a bit into my glass—then his.
“You’re so fucking cute when you get annoyed.” He takes the glass and sips from it. “I like this side of you.”
How dare he call me cute when we’re in the middle of a negotiation! What does he think this is, a date? Who does he think I am? Someone who caves this easily?!
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”
He pauses mid-sip. “Don’t what?”
“Deflect.”
“I’m not deflecting.”
“You are. I asked you what happened with my brother, and instead of answering me, you’re flirting.”
His mouth curves, but at least he has the decency to set the glass down.
“Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I won’t flirt.”
The cold from the rink seeps through the thin soles of my unsensible shoes, but I don’t waver. I refuse to back down or give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m uncomfortable.
“I need specifics,” I continue. “Not ‘yeah we talked and it went fine.’ Not ‘it’s been handled.’ I need to know when it was, and what was said, and how you resolved it. Because if I’m stepping into something with you, I want to know the two of you can co-exist.”
Before he can respond, I see someone skating toward us wearing black slacks, a crisp white button-down, bow tie, and—dear God—an apron tied around his waist.
As he gets closer…
“That’s my brother.”
Aaron nods. “That is, in fact, your brother.”
“But…”
What the heck is he doing here?
Declan kicks up ice when he skids to a stop near the table, a sparkling mist of ice crystals dusting Aaron’s sweater.
“Oops. I slipped.” He winks at me.
Declan wobbles to the edge of the carpet rolled beneath us, jaw tight like he’s doing advanced math in his head to stay upright. A silver tray is balanced on his hand.
He keeps his attention on Aaron. “Sir, I apologize for the minor inconvenience. Our rink conditions—as you know—can be unpredictable.”
Aaron looks him up and down, a huge grin spreading across his face. “I can’t fucking believe you’re wearing an actual bow tie.”
My brother reaches up and plucks at it. “Thanks, I borrowed it.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa! What on earth is going on?
What is happening?
“Hi. I hate to interrupt this newfound bromance of yours, but would either of you care to explain what the hell is going on?”
“You asked him to talk to me,” Declan tells me. “Obviously, he did.”
Aaron’s gaze drifts to me. “I followed directions.”
Declan straightens, looking far too pleased with himself for a man dressed like a rejected groomsman. “And as part of that agreement,” he continues, “I am contractually obligated to deliver dessert—and refrain from violence.”
Aaron nods. “Appreciated.”
“We’re demonstrating maturity,” Declan adds, jutting his chin out proudly.
Aaron nods solemnly. “We’re showing real growth.”
Right.
Growth.
In thirty-six hours.
There’s a smile on my face as I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from grinning. “You’re both… insufferable.”
“I love you, Jules,” Declan continues. “You’re my baby sister. You’re, like, the only person I can fully trust. The last thing I wanted was for you to be hurt by my stupid mistakes.”