Chapter 20 #3
The rink is packed tonight. Kids flying past at full speed with no sense of personal space, couples skating in slow circles holding hands, the speakers playing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” just loud enough to get stuck in your head.
Lights are strung around the outer railing, glowing soft and golden, and snowflakes drift down, catching in Sawyer’s light hair before melting against his scruff.
I kneel in front of him once my skates are secure and eye his sad excuse for lacing. “Jesus. These are a disaster.”
His brows lift. “What’re you doing?”
“Saving your ankles.” I yank the first lace loose.
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. You’ll snap your ankle in half if you go out like this.”
He watches as I untie the lace and start again. “You want the boot to feel like it’s hugging your ankle. Otherwise, you’ve got no control. You’ll end up doing the splits or breaking something. Or both.”
His eyes gleam with amusement. “You’ve given this speech before.”
“To Sage. Every damn year.”
“Should I be scared?”
I finish the second lace and sit back on my heels, grinning. “Terrified.”
He barks out a laugh, and I push to my feet, brushing snow off my knees. I stride toward the rink, then glance back when I realize he hasn’t moved. “Come on, let’s get it moving. Time to face your doom.”
He drags a hand over his face but follows. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t have a whistle.”
I step onto the ice first—easy, practiced—then turn and hold out my hands.
He hesitates. “You sure about this?”
“Nope,” I say, wiggling my fingers. “But we’re committed now. No backing out.”
His palms meet mine, and fuck. His hands are warm, even in the cold, rough and broad enough to swallow mine whole. Mine look like they belong to a child in comparison. His are veiny and calloused, the kind of hands that could flip a tractor tire or drag a woman closer with a single tug.
I try not to think too much about any of that and shift my grip. “Okay. Bend your knees. Lean forward. And for the love of God, don’t stand up straight—you’ll go ass over backwards.”
He nods, his jaw tight. I can tell he’s concentrating like hell.
I step back slowly, pulling him with me. Gently. Praying to every winter god that he doesn’t go down. If he falls, his huge hulking ass is big enough that I’m going down with him—and probably ending up concussed.
We make it a few feet, inch by painful inch, his balance wobbling but holding.
“This is fucking impossible,” he grits out.
“Yeah, well, you’re built like a walking tree trunk. Grace was never in the cards for you, I’m afraid.”
He exhales a laugh, shaky but real, and I tighten my grip just slightly as we inch forward again. “You’re doing fine,” I tell him, and I mean it. He is. “You haven’t taken us both out yet. That’s something.”
He glances down at our skates. “Now what?”
“Now,” I say, grinning, “we survive. And pray no eight-year-olds take us out first.”
“That isn’t very reassuring,” Sawyer mutters, his skates clunking awkwardly against the ice. His legs are stiff, his knees boycotting the whole thing.
“You’ll live,” I say, then quickly add, “probably.”
He levels me with a look that could frost the rink all over again, and I smother a grin.
Adjusting my grip on his hands, I guide us around the curve of the rink, the glow of Main Street’s Christmas lights haloing behind him.
Overhead, the speakers crackle as Bing Crosby transitions into some jazzier version of “Let It Snow.”
There’s a determined scowl on Sawyer’s face, like he’s still trying to mentally outmaneuver gravity. Which is funny, considering the man could probably deadlift a small truck but is currently being out-skated by a toddler in a Paw Patrol puffer jacket.
I squeeze his hands and shift my tone to something lighter. “Okay. Let’s distract you. Why do you hate the holidays?”
His gaze flicks to mine, and it’s instinctive, sharp.
His eyes are a color you can’t quite pin down—blue, but not entirely. There’s green in there too, like lake water under a summer sky, shifting and stubborn. It makes them look alive. Watchful.
He lifts a brow. “Who says I hate the holidays?”
“I do. Call it a hunch.”
He lets out a short breath through his nose—something between amusement and avoidance—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You just…do. I can tell,” I say simply, like it’s not something I’ve been thinking about since Thanksgiving.
He’s quiet for a second. Concentrating, probably. On not falling. On how much space he’s taking up on the ice. On not running into the teenager barreling past us with zero regard for anyone’s personal safety.
But I’m watching him.
The stubble shadowing his jaw, rough enough that I can imagine how it’d feel against my palm.
The slight bump in the bridge of his nose.
That faint scar near his temple—old, faded, but there.
And his mouth—soft-looking, full and a little tense in the corners, like there’s something he’s holding back.
Sawyer Hart is—fine, yes—annoyingly attractive. But that’s not what sticks. What sticks is how real his face looks up close. Not polished or perfect. Just lived in. Strong. A little weary. A little closed off.
His attention drops back down to his skates, and I can see his jaw working, like he’s still trying to logic his way into balance.
“Hey,” I say, tugging his hands gently until his eyes lift again.
“What?”
“Stop thinking so hard. Just look at me.”
His brows knit, but he does. Slowly. Cautiously.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” I say. “But you’re trying too hard. When you stop thinking about doing it right, your body will catch up eventually.”
His mouth ticks up just barely.
“So just keep looking at me. And tell me why you hate the holidays.”
He sighs—long and low, one of those breaths you don’t mean to let out but it comes anyway. His arms shift with the exhale, and for a second he wobbles.
I tighten my grip on his hands automatically. “Careful.”
He nods once. Then finally says, “It’s just…a lot.”
I don’t say anything. Just pull him a little further.
“The music. The lights. The expectations.” His jaw works. “You’re supposed to feel a certain way, right? Like everything’s supposed to be merry and magical and perfect. And if it’s not, it feels worse somehow. Like you’re messing it up for everybody else.”
I nod slowly, guiding him in a wide arc near the edge of the rink. His hands are still tucked in mine, the weight of them familiar now. Heavy, but not in a bad way.
“It’s not just about the holiday,” he adds. “It’s everything around it. The lead-up. The noise. The pressure to be…cheerful. Put together. Even if the whole year kicked the shit out of you.”
My stomach pulls tight at that. Not because he said it, but because I’ve felt it too.
“And I used to like it,” he says, quieter now. “I really did.”
I glance up at him. His expression’s still guarded, but softer than before. Maybe the effort to hold it all in is finally wearing him out.
We keep moving, slow and clunky, but moving. And the thing is—he doesn’t seem to notice that he’s doing it. That his steps are starting to follow mine more smoothly, his body adjusting to the balance without thinking too much about it.
“When you’re a kid, the holidays are this big, shiny thing,” he says. “You don’t question it. You think it’s always gonna feel like magic because you don’t know any better.”
He keeps his eyes on the ice, but he’s still following my lead. Still holding on.
“But then you get older. And you start noticing the empty chairs. The weird tension in the room. The way everyone’s trying so hard to make it feel normal when it isn’t.”
He pauses for a second, like he might leave it there. Then, quietly—almost more to himself than to me—he says, “It’s just…harder now. That’s all.”
My hands shift slightly in his, but I don’t let go. I get it. I get it more than I want to admit. I glance toward the tree line past the rink, the faint glow of Main Street lights flickering beyond it.
“Sometimes I feel alone during the holidays,” I say. “I don’t want to. I try not to. But it’s there.”
He glances at me.
“I used to love it,” I go on. “The ice skating, the tree, the lights. My dad and I—we always made it a thing. We had all these dumb little traditions. He’d sneak cinnamon into everything and then act like it wasn’t on purpose. We used to try to out-decorate Loretta, which, you know, is impossible.”
Sawyer’s mouth ticks up slightly. But he doesn’t interrupt.
“And now…” I shrug. “Everyone kind of has someone. Boone has Lark. Ridge has his messed-up will-they-won’t-they with Miller. Mom has Loretta. Even Sage has Elvis, who—granted—is useless, but he still matters to her.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It just feels like I’m standing in the middle of all these little pairs. Like I’m part of the whole thing, but not really in it.”
He’s still watching me. Not pushing, not fixing. Just listening.
“I don’t think being with someone would fix it,” I say after a beat. “It’s not that.”
I’m still skating backward slowly, pulling him along. His grip is steady now, not so tense. My fingers feel warm around his.
“I just think…” I pause, exhaling through my nose. “Having someone who sees you. A friend. Maybe that’d make it feel a little less like I’m just orbiting everyone else’s lives.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m your friend.”
I roll my eyes at that, but it’s half-hearted. “You’re my fake husband. That’s a little different.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Well, we have to start somewhere.”
“I’ve never been good at making friends,” I admit. “Even when I was a kid.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Why do you think that?”
“Because it’s true.”
I let go of one of his hands so we can curve closer to the edge of the rink, near the string lights where fewer people are skating. He follows easily now, more balanced than he was before.
“I tried,” I tell him. “I always made an effort. But it never stuck.”