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Hazel shrugs. “I’m not sure.”
My conversation with Owens back at the bar the night I got my dragon tattoo is hazy, but I remember the basics, so I clamp my mouth shut and don’t say a fucking word. Like they smell blood in the water, Hazel and Pippa whirl on me, cornering me.
“What do you know?” Hazel asks, gaze boring into me.
I put my hands up like I’m innocent. “Nothing.”
“He’s lying.” Pippa’s eyes narrow, but she’s smiling.
“He’s absolutely lying.” Hazel runs her tongue along her bottom lip like she’s thinking of all the ways she can use her mouth to torture the information out of me later.
I don’t know whether it’s a good or bad thing that I have plans for us after this.
“Streicher,” I call. He looks over, mouth twitching in amusement when he spots the Hartley sisters interrogating me. “Your fiancée needs another drink,” I say, testing the word out.
I like the way it sounds. I think I might start using it myself soon.
Streicher pulls Pippa away. She mouthsI will find youwhile Hazel and I laugh, and I slip my arm around Hazel’s shoulder while we take in the party—our families, our friends, our people.
“Is it everything you expected so far, Hartley?”
She smiles, looking so happy and at peace. “Miller, it is everything and more.”
* * *
“We’re going to get in trouble,” Hazel hisses late that night as we sneak into the dim outdoor rink near our apartment, lit only by the moon and the stars.
“We’re not going to get in trouble.” I sit her down on a nearby bench and start lacing up her skates.
The staff know we’re here because I arranged for this months ago. They know to stay out of sight, though, because that would blow the surprise.
I move to my own skates, and Hazel gazes at the stars with a wistful smile. “Every time I look up at the stars on a cold night like this, I think about skating outside after the League Classic.”
When she turns to me, holding her hand out with that searing look of adoration, I think my heart might burst.
I press a quick kiss to her mouth but pull away. “Hold on a second,” I murmur before heading to the control box the staff showed me and flicking the switch labeled RORY.
Around the boards, twinkle lights illuminate, bathing the rink in warm, sparkling light.
Hazel stills, a tiny smile curling up on her mouth. “Rory.”
“Hazel.” I make my way back to her, holding a hand out.
With my heart beating up into my throat, I help her onto the ice and we glide, hand in hand. My focus is torn between the way her hair flutters in the wind, how her eyes glitter in this lighting, and the velvet box in my jacket pocket.
I spin her and she laughs, clutching my hands.
“I’ve been thinking,” I start, pulse beating hard in my ears.
She sends me a curious glance.
“You have your studio now, I’m with the team for probably the rest of my career,”—I signed a seven-year contract a few days after the trade rumor fiasco—“and we share a home.”
Curiosity and amusement rise in her expression.
“What’s next, Hartley?”
I wait for her response, listening to the sound of our skates hitting the ice.
