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“Me too,cariad. But don't worry, I'll catch you.”
I stop and move to the edge of the path; Bryn looks back at me and skates in a semi-circle to face me. “What's wrong?”
“It's weird you calling me that.”
“But you are a sweetheart.” He heads over and I scowl at him. “I'm not trying to patronise you.”
How can I tell Bryn the way the word slips off his tongue is sexy as hell, in his strange mix of Welsh burr and American accent? There's no longer a teasing tone when he uses the name; it's natural as if the word is meant for me. What stings is the endearment was undoubtedly used on other girls before me.
“I could call youbachbut I think you'd hate that more,” he says.
Little one.“Or you could call me Avery.”
Bryn tips his head. “If you prefer.”
“Yes.”
“I'll try, but you arecariadto me.” He turns and skates away, leaving me confused beneath the trees.
I soak up the atmosphere; the shrieking and laughter carry through the evening and accompany the latest chart hits played around the rink, as the skaters share a night out of the ordinary, relaxed in the strange white world out of place in London's heartland. The tall towers of the Wharf loom above, into the clear sky shrouded with the orange dim of the city lights.
What's Bryn's motivation? Does he need somebody to talk to on the edge of his normal life? Or did the kiss mean something? Has he changed his mind?
I grit my teeth and set off in the direction Bryn went. That kiss remains with me much longer than it should.
I reach the end of the path and emerge back to the large rink, swept into the people circling like a whirlpool. Skating to keep up and so nobody smacks into me, I crane my head looking for Bryn.
As I head to the edge of the rink, desperate to pull myself from an increasingly speedy roundabout of bodies, I cut diagonally in front of a family. The adults swerve out of my way but I collide with the penguin-aid the little boy is pushing and lose my footing. The heavy boots drag me to the floor and I sprawl, luckily at the edge of the rink away from sharp skate blades.
The mum mutters something at me and instead of checking if I'm okay, fusses over her kid who has carried on skating, unperturbed, as I drag myself into a sitting position. Nobody looks twice at a common situation for the rink but my hip hurts where I landed roughly on the hard ice.
I scramble to stand again before Bryn sees me, but seconds later, he emerges from the crowd and skates to a halt in front of me.
“I can't take you anywhere!” he says with a shake of the head. “Attacking small children!”
“I didn’t. He got in the way.”
“Hmm.” Bryn holds a hand out. “Are you okay?”
“I think I'm going to have an impressive bruise.”
He hauls me to my feet and I steady myself against him, placing a hand on Bryn's chest. As I wobble, his arm circles my waist, holding me upright. Despite the thick layers of clothing between us, the awareness of his touch fires heat into my cold extremities and I toy with the idea of holding onto him for longer than I need to.
“Where?” asks Bryn.
“Pardon?”
“Your bruise. On your arse?”
And with that, he breaks any illusion of romance.
“Great choice of word, Bryn.”
He ignores me. “But you're okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to leave?”
