The relief of being home fills my lungs. My skates spin across the ice, my arms outstretched, the smile spreading . . . when I crash into what feels like a moving mountain. My arms flail as the collision knocks me off balance, and I charge toward the ice.
“I’ve got you,” I hear a masculine voice say above me.
A strong arm wraps around my waist. It’s a move that is familiar but devastating. Warmth immediately wraps around my midsection. I’m so embarrassed to have almost fallen that I close my eyes, scrunching my face. I don’t even want to see the expression of whoever is in front of me.
“Good thing it was Tchaikovsky.” A molasses-covered voice pirouettes throughout my limbs.
“You know Tchaikovsky?” I mutter in disbelief, my eyes still tightly closed shut in hopes that this is a dream and I won’t ever have to face the one who rescued me from the frozen water beneath my feet.
“Of course. If music by Stravinsky was playing, this may have been a different situation entirely.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. This man knows his classical music. He’s probably married or, at the very least, not single, but my heart lifts in unexpected hope. While I used to dream of being with a dancer, my experiences have cemented a need for a man who knows music over choreography any day.
The wool of his coat scrapes against my fingertips, and I finally dare to open my eyes. I feel them widen as I confirm that the moving mountain is, indeed, a living, breathing man. I find that he is protectively shielding me, his arms preventing me from falling to the ice, and I forget to breathe. My head tilts backward as I follow his towering frame up and up and up.
Inky, dark hair curls loosely, falling in perfect ringlets near his face, longer on the top and shorter on the sides. I catalog his chiseled features and his full mouth and finally land on eyes that are the darkest amber in tone. Their color appears almost like a rich maple syrup just before it drips onto pancakes or gingerbread fresh out of the oven. I’ve never seen such a striking eye color on a man. And as my neck lifts to maintain eye contact, I know I was right to first consider him a mountain. His broad shoulders look constrained within his well-fitted peacoat, hints of muscle evident even through the layers of clothing. He must be four to five inches over six feet, at least.
For a moment, I have a crazed desire to let myself imagine how easily he could catch me in a lift.
“You surprised me,” the stranger says in a tone that’s laced with intrigue.
“Well, you surprised me too,” I counter, lifting my face to him boldly, unsure of where my sudden comfort with a stranger is coming from. Maybe I’m exhausted from the pain of being repeatedly polite. The man’s jaw twitches at my quip, a hint of a grin pulling at the left side of his mouth. A line in his cheek has me wondering what gloriousness would unfold if he managed an actual smile. Would there even be a devastating dimple hiding within?
“No, I’m so sorry. I . . . should’ve looked where I was going,” I begin, my breath following my words in a wisp of white air through the dark night and artificial lighting hanging above us. As often as I’ve been close to men on stage, I am fully convinced this man is the only one who could’ve kept me on my feet no matter what, even if we stumbled.
“I was looking at the lights,” I continue. The irony is not lost on me that to look at him, I must crane my neck to look up. Good thing I have a flexible neck, which also happens to be a thought I’ve never really had in my entire life.
He lifts a brow and moves a hand to adjust his coat collar. My eyes zero in on the perfect view of the tattoo on his hand, a stunning design of an antique clock trailing over the top of his overtly masculine hand in a way that will be forever etched in my mind. I look to his other hand to see if there’s a matching one, but it’s tucked away in his pocket.
Following the direction of my eyes, he drops the hand to slide it into his other pocket.I’m unnerved by his gaze. Not because I feel threatened but because I feel as though he’s reading me. His eyes pierce mine, seeing me in a way I didn’t think was possible.
A chorus of voices around the rink yells, “Welcome back, Ivy!” Everyone keeps skating around us as if we’ve become part of the terrain. His physique really could be akin to a mountain.
“It’s good to look up at the stars every now and again,” he reassures me.
My shoulders relax. His response unlocks something in my mind. Inexplicably, I feel the urge to pour out my deepest thoughts to this man and see how he reacts. I want to give him the unfiltered version of my life to see if his strength could hold it up, as I suspect. It’s shocking how much his presence reminds me that I can still feel flutters in my stomach and a man can still make new tracks in the fallen snow of my heart.
“I’m glad you’re okay, though,” he continues kindly, and the tone of his voice is a song I want to dance to. “Especially since you just arrived.”
“How do you know I just arrived?”
He grins. I can officially confirm he really does have a devastating dimple, and I want to choreograph ways to see it again and again.
“You’re wearing a bright-red coat and look as though you belong on the stage . . . perhaps in front of a camera. There’s no way I would’ve missed you if you were here earlier.”
My cheeks heat up but out of delight rather than embarrassment. His attention feels like it’s building me up instead of wearing me thin, and I want to see how much of his energy I can absorb before we go our separate ways.
“Well, I—” I begin.
“I hope you—” he begins simultaneously.
We freeze and share a nervous laugh as I will myself to memorize the shade of his gingerbread-colored eyes, because I know I’ll soon be trying to find their exact color in everything I see. Snow flurries flutter around us like we’re in the middle of a snow globe.
“Have a good night,” I say quietly, wishing I could think of something cleverer. Connecting with men has never been my strong suit.
Lightly, the stranger’s eyes caress my face. They trace my jaw, fluttering over my lips and studying my cheekbones untilthey move to meet my gaze, lingering for a moment longer. After a beat, he gives a brief nod and a small smile and then skates away, looking back over his shoulder once before focusing again on the ice. I want to skate after him or call to him. But I don’t.
“Here you are!” Grey’s voice trills from right next to me, her wide smile a relief to my bones. Turning, I wrap her up in a hug and hold my dearest friend close, but over her shoulder, my eyes catch the mountain of a man as he glides toward us in another pass around the ice.
