Because it feels so fucking good.
And that scares me more than if she’d challenged me.
I don’t trust moments that rewrite history without acknowledging it. I don’t trust validation that arrives wrapped in charm and easy smiles and a body that makes heads turn, offered like it was always meant to be mine.
I meet her eyes and hold them, letting the silence stretch long enough to remind myself who I am.
“Cecilia?”
The way she says it is different this time. Softer. Curious.
I blink, pulled abruptly back into my body.
“Yeah,” I say.
She smiles, just a little, knowing she’s interrupted something but isn’t sure what. Or maybe she does and is choosing not to name it.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“You didn’t,” I lie.
She glances towards the far end of the rink, then back to me. “There’s a dinner tonight. Staff, coaches, a few people from the US Olympic Committee. Very low-stakes and lots of bad wine. Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t drink wine.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
Her smile widens, pleased. “I’ll take that as a maybe?”
“I don’t know,” I say, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t normally do these things.”
“I know,” she replies easily. “That’s why I’m asking.”
There it is again—the feeling of being clocked without being cornered.
“You don’t have to decide now,” she adds. “I just wanted to make sure you knew you were invited.”
Invited. Notexpected.
“What are the kids going to do?”
“Nina has that covered for them.” She winks, andmy god, this woman.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“Okay,” she replies, unbothered. “I’ll see you later, then.”
She steps back, giving me space even as her eyes linger a beat longer than necessary. Long enough for something to spark between us, and definitely long enough for my pulse to trip over itself again.
Then she turns and walks away, leaving behind the echo of her presence and the quiet certainty that whatever the fuck this is, it’s not staying where I put it.
CHAPTER 7
CECILIA
Rodrigo is halfwaythrough pulling on a hoodie I don’t recognize when he looks up at me, like something just occurred to him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, face serious and eyebrows scrunched like he does right before hitting the ice at a competition.
“That’s never a good start with you,” I say with a laugh from my seat on the small couch we have in our shared living room. But I sigh regardless, because I still want to hear what insane thing he has come up with. “About what?”
