“And?” His gaze burned into her, stubborn, unrelenting.
“And what?” she shot back, meeting his stare with all the sharpness she could muster.
They sat frozen, glaring at each other across the small table, the tension between them tightening like a rope about to snap. Neither one wanted to yield.
Then came the discreet but pointed clearing of a throat.
The waitress.
Her notepad was clutched to her chest like a shield, eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “What would you two like to order—or should I come back?”
“Yes!” Tate snapped, his voice too quick, too hard.
“No. I’m ready and I’m starving,” Nettie said at the exact same time, her words tumbling over his. She offered the waitress her brightest smile, ignoring the way Tate stiffened across from her.
“I thought you weren’t hungry?” he muttered, his tone low, edged.
“I thought we weren’t talking,” she countered sweetly, cutting her eyes away from him and back to the waitress, who was visibly regretting her career choices. “I’d love the veggie plate—with turnip greens, sliced tomatoes, and lima beans…”
Tate groaned under his breath. “All things I hate.”
“They aren’t for you,” Nettie snapped, her smile now saccharine. “So maybe you’ll leave my plate alone. Oh—and a side of hashbrown casserole.”
The waitress scribbled quickly, eager to escape, and then turned to Tate. He rattled off an order that could have fed halfthe restaurant. Nettie didn’t bother hiding her smirk when he finally shoved the menu away.
When she finally dared to glance up, she caught the subtle release of a breath from his lips. It wasn’t just a sigh—it was something heavier, more tired, the kind that carried a thousand unspoken words. His broad shoulders slumped forward as though the fight had gone out of him, and in that instant, he looked more human, more breakable, than she ever remembered him being.
Her heart betrayed her, thudding hard against her ribs.
“I didn’t want tonight to be like this,” he said at last, his voice quiet.
The softness disarmed her. Tate was supposed to be loud, unshakable, always quick with some sharp-edged retort to keep her at arm’s length. But this voice—the one carrying apology, regret, maybe even hope—made the defenses she’d carefully constructed wobble.
Her lashes fluttered, her chest tight. And then his hand shifted, bridging the space between them. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushed against hers on the table.
Nettie froze. His skin was warm. Steady.Her fingers twitched instinctively, as though they might pull back, but they didn’t. They stayed, trembling against his.
“How did you want tonight to go?” she whispered. The fire that usually colored her tone had dimmed, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. Something she hated to admit she felt—yet couldn’t deny.
His eyes rose to meet hers, and for the first time that evening, the cocky bravado was gone. The teasing smirks, the armor he wore so easily—they had vanished. What remained was sincerity. Raw, startling sincerity.
“I wanted to spend some time with you,” he said. His thumb shifted, not quite a caress but close enough that she noticed. “Tohang out with you, to be close, and enjoy a moment together that doesn’t involve me on the ice fighting to score a point. I get tired of the fighting, the bickering, and when we rode together…”
He paused, and for just a flicker, a smile ghosted his lips.
“It was really nice.”
The words pierced through her, finding the vulnerable places she tried so hard to shield. She’d told herself a thousand times that what happened between them didn’t matter, that she wouldn’t let him close again. And yet here he was, pushing past her defenses with nothing more than quiet honesty.
“It was,” she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could stop it. Almost without realizing, her thumb brushed against the back of his hand. The motion was instinctual, reckless, and dangerous. But it was also honest. “I know I’m difficult. I know there are hard feelings between us, but I feel like every time I try to start again—something happens.”
Something always happened.
A wrong word.
A careless joke that hit too close to home— something.
“What if we stopped fighting and just let this happen?” he murmured, his gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “We’re not children, we’re not teenagers, we’re adults with very different lives now.”
