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This whole thing might’ve been a big mix-up, no real fault on either of our parts. But I still feel betrayed. It doesn’t make sense, but his holding out on something as basic as his name feels like a big omission. Though it didn’t occur to me to think that until I found out what his last name is.
And I’m no better, sneaking out the way I did. He should be running for the hills.
But he’s heading for the desk where they rent skates, even though I didn’t agree. Visually, I measure the width of his shoulders, the taper to his waist, the long legs that I know are muscled and covered with blond hair. But what I’m really looking at is the man inside the sexy body, trying to figure him out.
Chance makes quick work of putting skates on, stands sure-footed, and holds his elbow out to escort me to the ice’s edge.
“What are you doing?” I ask blankly. “This” —I move my hand between us— “doesn’t make sense. Last night was great, but we both know what it was. It’s okay to walk away.”
“And if I don’t want to?” he counters.
I don’t have an answer to that. Instead, I find myself taking his elbow and letting him lead me onto the ice.
The din of the people around us is the only sound as we make a slow loop around the rink. I’m still trying to figure out how I ended up here.
Not literally, as in the ice rink. But with Chance Harrington.
I gave Luna so much shit when she got with Carter, but him? I threatened to feed Carter to a herd of pigs if he hurt her. Probably not the healthiest reaction I could’ve had, but I have issues with men after my dad’s shenanigans, and ones with money? Even less trustworthy, in my experience.
I’m giving Chance a way out—no hard feelings, no harm, no foul. Why isn’t he taking it?
“I’m remembering all the things Luna’s said about you now,” Chance says after a bit. “But I’d like to hear it from you. You’re a student, right?”
“Yeah, I don’t only sell dicks,” I say dryly, assuming he’s trying to make me into something I’m not. I’m not ashamed of my Bedroom Heaven sales gig, but it’s not something most people have a positive reaction to. I’ve definitely learned that over the last couple of weeks, and given that Chance is probably replaying my stage fall and subsequent talk about sex toys, it’s a logical leap. “Don’t get too excited, though. I’m a psychology grad student, focusing on intimacy and relationship counseling. In other words, I’m gonna be a sex therapist.”
I don’t need a psychology degree to know I’m trying to scare him off. Testing him and pushing buttons to get a reaction like my very own, small-scale, single-subject science experiment.
“You’ll be good at that,” he replies evenly, not taking the bait. “What drew you to that specialty?”
I glare at him, mad that he’s showing actual interest in me. Frustrated, I grit out, “Because when you choose someone to be your partner, you’re giving them power over your heart, your head, your life, while also taking responsibility for theirs too. In little ways and in big ones. It becomes you, me, and we, so choosing wisely and making that relationship the best it can be is important. Intimacy, which isn’t always about sex, is a cornerstone of that foundation for happiness.” My answer is delivered as though we’re fighting even though Chance hasn’t said anything to the contrary yet.
“That makes sense,” he says.
The too-simple response to something I’m so passionate about is another nail in Chance’s coffin until he adds, “What if your partnership isn’t built on ‘you, me, and we’ in that way, though? That’s too idealistic, don’t you think? For example, what about a marriage of convenience or companionship rather than for love, or for money and power? Not everyone is lucky enough to find some utopic, blissful, love-of-their-life connection.”
Chance looks at me, skating smoothly as he gives a thoughtful, well-constructed argument. I, however, stumble. Both my feet and my brain, not having expected an intelligent, thought-provoking response. Especially one in which he effectively calls me a hopeless romantic, something I’ve never been accused of being.
I catch myself, finding my mental balance as Chance grabs me, his grip strong as he helps me reset physically. Both skates beneath me, I agree with him. “That can work, as long as both people have their eyes fully open about what their relationship is and isn’t. Unfortunately, that’s rare. More often, one person is giving their all, digging into their soul to support a person who’s not invested at all, or only shallowly.”
“Sounds like someone you know,” Chance says wisely. He hasn’t let go of my hand since I almost fell, but it doesn’t feel like he’s unsure of my skating abilities but rather, just wants to touch me. It feels... good... warm and buzzy from where our skin touches, and my mind is a spinning tornado too, trying to make sense of every word he says.
I sigh and nod. “My dad. He cheated, left, and Mom had to pick up the pieces... of their relationship, of her own broken heart, of my and my sister’s anger, of our whole life. It shouldn’t be like that. For anyone.”
“I’m sorry.”
Two little words, but they patch a little rip in my soul that’s been torn for a long time. Especially when Chance stops us and wraps his arms around me, hugging me tightly. Skaters pass by us on both sides, but I ignore them, sinking into him. It shouldn’t matter—they’re meaningless words from a near stranger—but they do.
Too soon, I pull back, swiping at my eyes though there are no tears, only the echoes of ones I’ve cried in the past. “It’s okay. His loss, because Mom is doing great now, even dating again.”
“You too. You’re doing great too,” Chance adds.
A skater breaks in between us, and I look down. “Uncle Chance! Skate with me! I love this song!” Gracie demands loudly. Not waiting for an answer, she grabs his hand and drags him off as the lights become a discotheque swirl of colors over the white ice.
He’s grinning at Gracie, another one of the minions she has wrapped around her finger, but he glances up at me with a warm smile too. Realizing that Chance is way more complex than I gave him credit for, I smile back. I kinda hate that I misjudged him so harshly, especially when I hate it when people do that to me all the time. But he’s made of sturdier stuff and is forcing me to give him a chance.
I’m glad.
I tune in to the music, realizing it’s classicHip Hop Harry, Who’s Next?and the other skaters are chanting ‘go, go, go Harry’. But instead of spotlighting someone in the middle of the rink, it seems like every skater is getting faster and faster, swooshing by me in an infinite race to nowhere.
