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“Yes.” I push them up my nose reflexively. “But I like hearing it again.”
“You look like a sexy librarian.” His fingers glide over my hip. “And these leggings. Fuck, angel. You’re driving me mad.”
“Right back at you.” My lips press together.
It’s a habit, him deflecting with sex, but that doesn’t make it go down easier. Not that anything or anyone is going down.
Well, maybe later. That is our relationship. Just sex. Doing the sex part might help with reminding me of our boundaries.
In theory.
It’s not that I want to fuck him.
I mean I do.
But…
Uh…
He shoots me that classic Wes Keating smile. “You ready to go again?”
“Do I have to?”
He nods yeah.
Okay. I… I want to get this. I want to tease him. To be here. To find out what happened.
Later.
He asked for a distraction.
I’m honoring that.
No matter how badly I want to know.
He interlaces his fingers with mine. “You’ve got this.”
Okay, I’ve got this. I take a small step. Then another.
I just barely glide, but I do.
We move around the curve of the rink.
The disco song switches to Staying Alive.
Wes laughs. “Fuck, they need a new soundtrack.”
“You taking other women here?”
“Where do you think I went yesterday?”
“I, um—”
“I wouldn’t,” he says.
“Oh.”
“We’re exclusive.”
“Right.”
“Besides… Only one thing I do with other women. Well, did.” He motions to a roller skater doing tricks in the curve ahead. Helps me move toward the center of the rink.
Ish.
My foot lands wrong.
I teeter.
But he catches me.
Holds my body against his.
My heart thuds against his chest.
God, he feels good.
This feels good.
Different.
More…
Just more.
“You’re overthinking it,” he says.
“I know you believe that’s helpful—”
“Talk to me about something.”
“Well, um…” I glide forward. (Okay, forwardish). It breaks our touch.
Air-conditioning beats over my head and neck. I’m in a sweater and leggings, but I’m freezing. It should be a nice reprieve—it’s a million degrees outside—but it’s not. I miss the warmth of him.
“Where did you go yesterday?” I ask.
“Fuck, that’s a long story.”
Small step. Glide. Repeat. That part is easy. Now, putting it together… “I have time.”
His laugh is soft. Endeared. “You’re closer than you think.”
I shake my head.
He nods.
“How about I keep trying as long as you keep talking?” I suggest.
“You blackmailing me?”
“No.” It’s hard to explain. “I just… I want to know.”
“Yeah.” His fingers skim my hip. My shoulder. My forearm. He intertwines his fingers with mine. “How steady are you?”
My heart is skipping. But that’s not what he’s asking. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Okay.” He squeezes my hand with his. “It’s just… Fucked, I guess.”
“I get that.”
His gaze shifts from me to the rink in front of us. The space is clear. There are only a dozen people here and they’re all in the fast lane, so to speak.
His eyes meet mine.
His voice drops to a whisper. “My mom’s an alcoholic.”
“Oh.” Shit. My legs wobble. I squeeze his hand. It’s enough to keep me balanced. I suck a breath through my nose. Exhale slowly. One foot after the other. Baby steps. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud before.”
“I thought she just liked wine.” Mrs. Keating always indulged when our families got together, but no more than my mom did. They were old friends having fun. It seemed normal.
He shakes his head. “She’s good at pretending shit’s okay.”
“Is that where you get it?”
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. Vulnerable. He’s still staring straight ahead. Avoiding my gaze. “Guess I’m not as good as I used to be.”
“You’re pretty good.”
He chuckles. “Is that a compliment?”
“I don’t know. Do you want it to be?”
“Last week, I would have said yes. Today…” His voice drops again. “She’s getting worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Chase wants to send her to rehab.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“In theory.” His gaze shifts to me. His blue eyes fill with hurt. Need. Trust. “But what if she says no?”
“Then what’s changed?”
“Everything.” He motions to the exit door. Then to the rink.
I nod. “I’m good for another round.”
“You’re getting it.”
“Kinda.”
“You are.” He releases my hand. Moves behind me. Rests his palms on my hips. “Try faster.”
“Wes, I—”
“Just try.”
“No, I…” I fail to find the appropriate response. It’s not like there are words to fix this. Or even soothe him. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Just Hunter, Chase, and my dad.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.” His fingers curl into my hips. “Faster.”
I nod. Try to hold my glide. It’s shaky, but it’s getting there.
We move around the rink again.
The song switches to a family hit from the early 80s.
We do another lap.
My steps get steadier.
I actually glide.
For three seconds at a time.
But it’s something.
The air between us changes.
Gets warmer.
Sweeter.
He moves closer.
It’s only a few inches, but it’s so obvious.
He slows to a stop at the door. Presses his palm to the railing. Looks to the ground. “Chase thinks I’m an enabler.”
I swallow hard. I want to say something to help him, but how the hell can I help him?
