"He could do it. Score at Riverside."
"I know." She smiles. It's small but real. "That's why I said it."
God. This woman.
"Jessica."
"Sergio."
I should step back. Should maintain distance. Should remember all the reasons this is complicated.
I reach out and brush the flour from her cheek.
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate. Her scent spikes until I can taste it on my tongue.
"You had flour," I say.
"From the cookies."
"I figured."
We're frozen. Her cheek warm under my fingers. Her lips parted. Her chest rising and falling faster than normal.
I could kiss her right now. She'd let me. I can see it in her eyes.
But not here. Not like this. Not when she's still figuring out what she wants.
I drop my hand.
"Friday," I say. "Six o'clock. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"Then don't start now."
I turn and walk toward my office. My hand is burning. My whole body is burning. I want to turn around and finish what I started, but I don't.
Control.
For years I've wanted this woman. She's not off-limits anymore.
And when she's ready—'m going to show her exactly what she's been missing.
But not today.
Today I let her walk out of my rink with flour on her face and fire in her eyes.
Tomorrow might be different.
21
JESSICA
Three days without setting anything on fire.
I'm calling it progress.
The spreadsheet glows on my laptop screen, color-coded and beautiful. Blue for practices. Green for games. Yellow for travel. Red for conflicts, which there aren't any of anymore because I fixed them all.
