Famous last words.
Two seconds later, his feet shoot out from under him. There’s awhooshand athud, followed by a loud groan as he sprawls flat on his ass.
From across the rink, Freja claps. “That’s one point for gravity!”
I skate over, circle him once, twice, just for fun.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he grumbles.
“You said you like being grounded,” I tease, offering my hand.
He takes it, grinning, and then yanks me down so I’m also on my ass. “Ransom,” I protest.
He gets up then, faster than me, and circles around me.
“Happy?” I ask dryly, sending him a look that says, ‘I’m not impressed.’
I chase him.
I catch him.
He hugs me.
I feel like I’m floating.
There’s a moment—spinning past my mother and father, Freja and Jonathan holding hands, the kids chasing each other, the music swelling—that hits me like a sudden gust of joy.
This feels right.
The skating.
The togetherness.
Ransom.
He fits, and not only because of the past we had, but because of the present we’re choosing.
We stop near the edge of the rink, breathless, warm from movement.
Ransom leans close, brushing his lips against mine. “So…what’s the Richter scale on that smile?”
I laugh. “Solid seven.”
His eyes gleam. “Room to improve.”
And then he does something ridiculous—throws his arms out and tries to twirl.
Fails.
Falls again.
He groans and flops dramatically onto his back.
The lights twinkle above himlike stars.
“I give up,” he declares. “Leave me for the Zamboni.”
I sit down beside him, right there on the ice. The world spins on, skaters swirling past, music in the air. “Come on, old man, you’re making me look bad.”
