Page 64 of Small Town, Big Storm

I can see it now?—

HOMETOWN RIVALS FACE-OFF IN THIS YEAR’S HOME ICE CLASSIC

Though, instead of the game featuring Wilder and Storm, maybe it should showcase Wilder andClementine.

My lips twitch at the memory of how those two used to fight…and as I consider how those fights might translate to today.

Then I hear Holly say the word “rattlesnake” and immediately tune back into her chattering.

“Well, I’m glad you guys didn’t see any snakes today,” Storm says, crouching down in front of her.

“I’m not,” she grumbles.

A chuckle.“Still, overall, it sounds like a pretty awesome day.”

“It was.”She immediately perks up.“And now I have the best skating teacherever!”

His gaze comes to mine, and something goes soft inside my chest.

Because I’m watching it happen right in front of me—watching him fall in love with my daughter.

Withourdaughter.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and his tone is light as he tilts his head toward the benches.“Wanna sit down so I can put these on you?”

I glance at the skates—the decidedly brand-new,notrental skates—and lift my eyebrows.

He looks up at me as Holly runs over to sit down, murmurs, “Did a little reconnaissance yesterday about shoe size.”

I lift my brows higher.

The edges of his mouth tip up.“Turns out the rink has a pretty nice pro shop.”

“You shouldn’t?—”

“I should, Pop,” he says firmly.“Ishouldhave been doing it for a long time.”

Our eyes connect and hold, the softness in my chest growing, almost drowning out that layer of hurt, of anger, and for a moment, it’s like I’m back in the stands again, willing him to notice me, to smile up at me.

I want it so viscerally, sointenselythat the blip of yearning is almost immediately overpowered by fear.

It sends the desire, the past, the hope skittering away in a hundred different directions.

Like the Cedar Hollow Mafia on a mission to steal popsicles.

That hope isn’t my past.

And…it isn’t my future.

“I-I should help her,” I say quickly, starting to move past him.

He wraps his hand around my leg, stopping me, his palm on my shin, his fingers drifting over the back of my knee.

Their heat soaks through the thin fabric of my sweats, sears into my flesh.

“I’ve got it, Pop,” he murmurs, those fingers flexing.

“I can?—”