"I—I should go," I blurted out, my voice rough."Early skate tomorrow.Coach will actually murder me if I'm late."
Smooth, Holt.Real smooth.
Henry's eyebrows lifted a fraction.Then he smiled—a slow, devastating curve of his lips that wasn't mocking, just deeply, faintly amused."Cute," he said softly, his gaze dropping to my undoubtedly flushed mouth."The way you react."
"Yeah, well..."My face was on fire."Good cake.Thanks for...dinner."
I grabbed my jacket from the back of a chair like it was a shield against the heat radiating from my own skin and all but bolted for the door.
"Charlie," Henry called out, his voice calm, as I fumbled with the handle.
I turned, heart in my throat.
His expression was neutral, but there was a dark, promising glint in his eyes that said this wasn't finished.Not by a long shot."Get home safe."
I nodded, muttered something that was halfway between "goodnight" and "thanks again," and fled.
Outside, the cool night air slapped against my hot cheeks.I leaned against the sleek black town car; his driver was already waiting, holding the door open.
What the hell was that?
A kiss, sure.But not just a kiss.The way it had lit me up from the inside—how fast and completely I'd melted against him—terrified me almost as much as the frantic urge I had to turn around and go back upstairs.
"Get it together," I muttered to myself, sliding into the plush back seat.
But as the car pulled away from the curb, the taste of dark chocolate and Henry Emerson lingered on my lips, stubborn and persistent as gravity.No matter how many times I told myself to focus on hockey, on the game, on my career, one undeniable truth pulsed underneath it all:
I already wanted more.
Chapter 5
The ice was my sanctuary.Usually.The place where the world narrowed to the width of the boards, the weight of my stick, the feel of the puck on my tape.It was where thinking stopped, and instincts took over.
Today.It was a special kind of hell.
My skates felt like they were filled with lead.My gloves were too big, my stick a foreign object.Every drill was a battle against my own brain, which had apparently decided to upload Henry Emerson kiss on continuous, high-definition loop.
