I’m not complaining about my lack of ability to reach high cabinets when I get this view.
He takes the offering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—this is my wrapping paper of choice.”
I shudder. “Blasphemer.”
“Well then you won’t be happy about the wrapping on your gift.” He lifts a small bag out of his larger one and I eagerly grab it. I equally love givingandgetting presents.
I peek inside and see the cowboy key chain from before. “Thank you. He’s great.” I slide him into my pocket.
“It’s time,” I say with my most serious facial expression.
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure? Wanna shop more? Get food? We can fly to Paris, if you want?”
I pause. “I mean, yes. I would go to Paris right now if that’s on the table.”
Beau sighs. “I have a meeting in the morning. And last-minute flights probably only have middle seats available.”
“Paris will have to wait then. And that means we can do this thing, right here.” I hustle us down to the rink.
“Fine.” He has all the enthusiasm of me finding out I have to work on a Saturday.
“If you don’t want to do this, we can just leave.” I don’t want to make him hate me when I want him to stick around. For a little bit, at any rate.
“No. I can do this.”
“If it helps, I think there’s a group of kids on the ice right now. And they look mean and ready to mock.”
“How is that supposed to make me feel better, exactly?”
“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s more for me.”
“That is not very hospitable of you.”
“Hospitality is your thing, Southerner. Honesty is ours. And sometimes that honesty is so honest it borders on cruelty. You need a thick skin in this city.”
“Charming.”
We walk to the ice-skating area, where he drops off his purchases and we pick up the skates. Standing outside the rink, the cold plastic of the side wall under my hands, I try to stop this one more time. Because Beau’s grip on the wall of the rink is so tight it’s going to crack it, if those white knuckles are any indication.
“We can get some food in a nice warm restaurant, sitting down, on a non-slippery surface.”
“Nope. We’re doing this.”
“You’re stubborn for a nice guy.” With sticky kids’ hands pushing at our backs as we stand near the entrance, I glide onto the ice. I skate a tight turn and meet him on the other side of the rink while kids flood in.
“I am not a nice guy.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“Not whennicemeansboring.” His eyes are locked on the smooth ice in front of him, telling me where his attention really is.
“Nice is not boring. It’s refreshing and...well, nice. And you have to leave or get on this ice, because the kid behind you is going to douse you in hot chocolate and maybe stab you with a candy cane shiv if you don’t move.”
Beau turns his upper body to protect himself from the candy cane bandit only to see there’s no one behind him but a few parents getting their kids ready for the ice. He turns his upper body back around to face me, giving me just about as much enthusiasm as TV’s Daria had for...anything.
Funny how much can be conveyed with a look.
