Page 43 of Melt the Ice

I pull in a shaky breath, my hands sliding down his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt. The small tug pulls him a tiny bit closer. “I don’t want to slap it out of your hand, Lucas.” I tilt my head up to meet his eyes, hoping he can feel everything I can’t seem to say just yet. “I just want you to ask for help. Tell me you’re struggling, or hell, stop putting yourself in a situation where you’re alone with no support.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He mumbles into my hair.

My hand moves to his cheek, thumb brushing back and forth against the coarse hair of his beard. “Don’t be, I just want you to get better. I don’t want you to be alone anymore, because you’re not. You have me, you have your friends, heck, you even have a therapist. Let us help. You want to hurt? Let's go do some physical labor. I’ll go work out with you. You’d probably kill me, but I’ll do it.”

He laughs, a deep, bellowing laugh. “I’d love nothing more than to see you in workout pants. Maybe shorts. I dream about your legs.” His head tilts back, the movement exposing the strong, corded column of his neck. A groan escapes him at the thought, low and needy, and my restraint simply snaps.

Lifting up on my toes, I run my tongue along the front of his neck. Tracing over the delicious bump in the middle, and he shudders, a full-body shudder. By the time he brings his head down enough for me to reach the soft skin just beneath his jaw, I press up a bit more and catch his ear between my teeth. “I dream about a lot of things,” I whisper. “Most of which involve you. So how about we pick up where we left off the other day? Hmm..?”

His hands answer before his mouth does, tightening against my hips, claiming me once again. “Careful,” He murmurs, voice low enough to make my skin pebble in its wake. He brings his forehead back to mine, our combined breath mingling once again, as he slides one hand back into my hair. He knows exactly what he’s doing, his grip keeping me right where he wants me. “If you keep talking like that… I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop this time.”

My pulse stutters, his eyes flicking between my eyes and mouth, the air between us crackling with electricity I hope never fades. “Good,” I breathe. “It’s about time you caught up.”

Time hangs suspended between us, neither of us daring to move. The whole world narrows to the heat of his hands, the press of his body against mine, and every promise we ever made hanging between us. Here, in this moment, we aren’t bogged down by grief or fear. Here, we’re simply two people who have been in love with one another for longer than they can remember.

But then he releases my hair, albeit reluctantly, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek. “Not tonight,” he says, voice husky. “I want to be steady, and I’m not. Not yet.” His thumb strokes softly over my cheek, apologetic and hopeful at the same time. “I’ll get there, and I hope you’ll be there when I do.”

Something in me springs to life, relieved, and wanting him even more for noticing and wanting better for himself. I step back, just enough to breathe on my own, but not enough to break our connection. “Then let’s get you better,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His smile is small, but devastating because it’s the same sheepish one he gave me when he first told me he liked me as more than a friend. He was ten, maybe eleven. I’d recognize it anywhere, though.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, letting his hands drop from my hips. “I know.”

And with those two words, for the first time since I’ve been back, it feels like the ground beneath us isn’t shifting, it’s settling.

18

lucas

Today is Wednesday, meaning it’s book club night, and after much convincing from Lettie, we step through the doors of Greyson and Hannah’s house, it’s homey and lived in. Currently decorated to the nines for Thanksgiving, no doubt the work of Amy Wilder, the woman is a decorating wizard. It also smells like heaven, cinnamon, and something citrusy.

A high-pitched, “Monroe!” Is the only warning I get before I’m body checked by a five-foot something blonde woman.

I wrap my arms around Abby’s waist, lifting her from the floor as I swing her wildly from side to side. “Hey, Abs,” I whisper, trying my hardest to keep my voice steady. I hear a sharp inhale from my right, and when I turn, I see Hannah with her hand over her mouth, tears forming in her eyes.

I don’t even think before I open my arms to her, too. She runs and jumps, and I now have two of the three women who mean the world to me in my arms. It’s about enough to bring me to my knees. I’ve ignored everyone but Lettie since the funeral, and that’s only because she’s strong armed her way into my house more times than I can count.

“Hey, Hannah Banana.” I squeeze them both a little tighter before the clearing of a throat has me turning all three of us to see both Wilder brothers. Tatum, with his arms crossed and his trademark scowl, and Greyson with a shit eating grin plastered on his face. How these two are related, I will never know.

I drop the girls as I walk toward the two of them, as the rest of my teammates slowly gather in the living room. “It’s nice to see you, man,” Wilder says as he pulls me in for a hug. The familiarity pulls at my heart. This is how it should be. So why can’t I pick up the phone and phone a friend other than Lettie when the weight of everything gets too heavy for me to carry alone?

“Hey, Scarlett,” Hannah says, throwing her arms around her next. “I don’t know if you’ve gotten a chance to meet Greyson’s brother, but this is Tate.”

Lettie waves, and Tate gives her a quick nod before turning away. “That’s not unusual, don’t take it personally.” Abby tacks on before she follows after him. Interesting.

We follow Hannah and Wilder into the living room, and while they all sit in their normal spots, all I want right now is the comfort of my girl. Well, I see her that way at least. We haven’t really talked about it. Taking her hand, I drag her over to the recliner in the corner, pulling her down with me. She settles across my lap, legs thrown over the arm of the chair, her head resting against my shoulder. “Thank you,” I whisper.

She grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together before crossing my arm over her stomach. “I’ve got you, Goldie.”

I blink at her once, waiting for the doubt to creep in, but it doesn’t. Instead, it’s like something in me shifted, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of everyone else.

In a room full of people, ones I consider family, their laughter almost feels too loud. The little nuances I normally wouldn’t pick up are front and center. Like the way Reed turns his body toward Sammy when he brings up Cecilia. Or when someone brings up a stalker romance, Wilson flinches. The way Hannah’s snapping a hair tie against her wrist, her nervous tell. It’s overwhelming, like an out of body experience. I’m here, but not here.

“Lettie,” I quietly croak.

Her head snaps back, and she must see the panic in my eyes because she immediately puts her hand over my chest, acting as the tether keeping me from floating away, “Breathe with me,” she whispers. And I do. One. She nods. Two. She smiles. Three. My heart rate slows. Four. I smile back. Five. And then the voices around the room rush back in.

No one else seems to have noticed my struggle, and while I don’t think they should all be focused on me, it stings. They don’t know me the way she does. My friends get the version of me that she spent years unknowingly building. They’ve never truly seen the broken pieces of me, the parts of me I’ve hidden from the light. I didn’t let them see, afraid to be a burden to anyone else, afraid that the pathetic kid who cried himself to sleep, lying hungry outside his mom’s bedroom door, would get left behind again.