I glare at him because I can’t breathe when he says things like that.
I shake my head, forcing space between us that immediately feels wrong. “Thank you for offering to help. And for, you know… making the embarrassment less horrifying in there. But I just don’t see how any of this helps. I can’t do spins or holds. I fell during the easiest part of the routine. How am I supposed to do pair skating when I can barely skate solo?”
“Because I’ll be there to hold you,” he says, the confidence in his voice so steady it almost hurts. “You just focus on the singing.”
“Scotty—” I inhale sharply, everything in me knotted tight. “This isn’t realistic. I’m not a skater. I’m not—”
He tilts his head, studying me with those warm, patient eyes that make me feel seen and safe and unbearably vulnerable all at once.
“Laura,” he says quietly, “let me help you.”
I can’t agree. I’ve always had a hard time accepting help.
“Look, I have an idea. One that will help distract the judges from your skating.”
I tilt my head. “What kind of idea?”
“I need to work out some details, but trust me, I’ve got a plan.”
“Scotty—”
“Please.” He reaches over and takes my hand, threading our fingers together. His palm is warm, solid, grounding. The second his skin touches mine, a shiver shoots straight up my arm, settling somewhere just under my ribs. “Just give me a day or two to figure it out. I promise you, Laura, we can do this. You're not going to fail.”
I stare down at our joined hands, unable to look away from the way his bigger fingers wrap around mine so confidently. My throat tightens. My heart is pounding way too loud in my ears.
Can I do that?
Can I trust him not to let me fall—literally and figuratively?
Can I trust myself not to lethimdown?
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper, forcing myself to drag my eyes back up to his. “After everything I said about keeping things professional. After I pushed you away for a year. Why would you put yourself out there like that? In front of everyone?”
His features soften, not out of pity, but something warmer, deeper. He cups my face with his free hand, the pad of his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with such tenderness it steals my breath. His touch is confident and careful, as though he knows exactly how fragile I feel right now and wants to hold me together anyway.
“Because I meant what I said that night on the ice. I can't stop wanting every part of you, Princess,” he murmurs. His voice is steady and devastating.
His thumb sweeps across my cheek again, slower this time.
“And watching you in there…so brave, so damn beautiful even when you fell…” He shakes his head. “I couldn't just sit there and let you lose this. Not when I could help.”
“Scotty…” I breathe, because I don’t know what else to say. Because nothing feels like enough. Because everything feels like too much.
“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even haveto—”
I cut him off by fisting the front of his jacket and yanking him toward me. Our mouths collide, messy and hungry, and suddenly I’m scrambling over the center console like all the oxygen in the truck is in his mouth. My knees slide around his hips, and the moment I settle on his lap, he lets out a low, wrecked sound that shoots straight through me.
“Laura,” he groans against my lips, his hands snapping to my hips to keep me from tipping backward. “What are you—”
“Shut up,” I breathe, kissing him again, harder. “Just shut up and kiss me back.”
He doesn't need to be told twice.
His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer until my chest is pressed to his. I grind down instinctively, desperate for more contact, and the thick, hard line of him beneath me makes my head spin. My sweatpants and his practice pants do nothing to hide how badly he wants me.
And I want him, too.
I grind down on him again, chasing the friction.
