His grin builds, inching wider across his face, deliberate and unhurried, until his dimples carve deep into his cheeks. I swear he’s fully aware of the weapon he just wielded. Who needs a sword when he has that smile?
“Same.”
Of course. “Figures,” I mumble under my breath as I skate into the center ice so he can’t hear.
He glides closer again, stopping abruptly, sending a spray of ice. “You know what’s weird?” he asks.
“What?”
“This is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you. Not in class.Not when tutoring. Not at the pizza parlor. Not at the bar. Not at your office.”
I fold my lips over my teeth, rolling over what to say in my mind. “That’s because ice doesn’t ask questions.”
“But people do,” he says like he understands.
“Yes.”
“And you hate answering them.”
“That’s correct.”
We skate around one more time before he says, “Yet you ask questions of others for a living, huh. I don’t know what to make of that.”
“Don’t worry your pretty big head about it.”
You think I’m pretty?” he teases.
I wave him off and turn away from those disarming dimples.
He shows off skating fast and hard. “Your turn,” he yells from the other end. When I get to him he says, “What European league did you play in and why did you quit?”
My stomach tightens and bile rushes up my throat. “I was a kid, but that’s a story for another day.”
He surveys my face carefully.
“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you, Annika?”
I push off and skate past him.
“It’s Anna.”
He calls after me, “Pretty sure it’s Annika.”
Keep skating.
Because the last thing I need is Parker O’Ryan asking questions about the name I buried.
Or the country that still remembers it.
TEN
PARKER
I tear my old room apart like I’m looking for buried treasure.
Except the treasure is a last name.
When I moved out, my dad turned my room into a playroom for the kids. Locks on the drawers, anchors on the furniture, soft covers on all the sharp edges and covers for every electrical outlet.
