The cameras exploded. Flash after flash, white-hot bursts that burned through my closed eyelids.
I heard the murmurs. The excited chatter. Someone laughing.
Nate's mouth curved against mine. Victorious.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were bright. Satisfied.
"There we go," he said. Loud enough for the press. "Missed you, B."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead—gentle, tender, perfect for the cameras—and whispered against my skin.
"Good girl."
Then he let me go.
Stepped back. Waved to the photographers. Slid into his car like nothing had happened.
The engine purred. Tires rolled.
Gone.
I stood there on the sidewalk, lips still tingling, body numb.
The cameras kept clicking.
I felt him before I saw him.
The weight of his stare pressed between my shoulder blades like a blade. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving.
I turned slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
Calder stood in the hallway leading back to the rink. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Eyes dark and cold as winter ice.
He'd watched the whole thing.
The cameras were still snapping behind me, but I couldn't hear them anymore. Couldn't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears and the ragged pull of my own breathing.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Lingered there. Then dragged back up to meet my eyes.
The look on his face wasn't hurt.
It was fury.
Raw and barely leashed.
I opened my mouth—to say what; I didn't know. To explain. To apologize. To scream that it wasn't real, that it didn't mean anything, that I was trying to protect him.
But he spoke first.
"If this is where your head is," he said, voice low and lethal, "I'm going to fucking bench you."
The words hit like a punch.
Cold. Brutal. Meant to cut.
And they did.
