“Because I’m taking you on a picnic.”
I look out the window at the snow-covered landscape. “It’s twenty degrees outside.”
“Hence the ‘wear something warm’ instruction.”
“You’re insane.”
“You bought me at an auction. Who’s really the insane one here?”
He’s got a point.
We drive through town, past the restaurants I imagined, past the movie theater, straight to the rink. He parks near the side entrance and kills the engine.
“We’re at your work,” I say flatly.
“Technically it’s our work. You teach here too.”
“Jude Blockton, if you’re making me sit in the bleachers while you practice?—”
“Would you relax?” He’s already getting out, grabbing the duffel and basket from the back. “Come on.”
I follow him inside, my boots click-clacking on the concrete floor. The rink is empty. Completely empty. The lights are low except for the ice, which is lit up like a stage. Music plays softly through the speakers. Something acoustic and sweet.
And at one end of the rink, on the ice itself, there’s a plaid blanket spread out with thermoses and what looks like fairy lights strung along the boards.
I stop walking.
“You made me a rink picnic.”
“I made you a rink picnic,” he confirms, looking suddenly nervous. “Is that okay? I know it’s not fancy but I thought?—”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupt, my throat tight. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
His shoulders relax. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I look down at my boots. “Though I should mention these were not designed for ice.”
“I noticed.” He sets down the basket and holds out his hand. “Come on. I’ve got you.”
He does. He guides me carefully onto the ice, one hand firm on my waist, the other holding mine. I slip immediately. He catches me. We both laugh.
“You’re terrible at standing,” he says.
“You’re terrible at warning people about surprise skating dates!”
“It’s not skating. It’s sitting. With ambiance.”
“Nothing says romance like Zamboni fumes.”
“You love the smell of my work.” He’s guiding me toward the blanket, moving backward on the ice like it’s nothing.
“I love central heating.”
“Liar.”
We make it to the blanket and I sink down gratefully, tucking my legs under me. He sits beside me and starts unpacking. Hot cocoa in thermoses. Sandwiches wrapped in foil. Cookies that look homemade.
“Did you make these?” I ask, holding up a slightly lopsided chocolate chip cookie.
