Page 81 of Secrets on Ice

The words hit me square in the chest.

He stands, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, which lifts his tee up, exposing the V on his hips.

Do not look.

I fail.

"Look ..." His eyes find mine. "Go enjoy your ho era."

I blink. What did he say?

"What happened in Maine ..." He gives me a small shrug. "... stays in Maine."

My stomach drops. He regrets it.

"We never have to speak about it again."

For a second I can't find my voice. I swallow back the humiliation lodged in my throat. "Okay."

“Have a good night,” he says before heading toward his room. His door clicks shut, and I stare at it long after he's disappeared.

A tear slips down my cheek and then another, I wipe them away.

How could I have been stupid enough to think that kiss meant something?

20

EMBER

Life after Maine settles into an electric kind of domesticity. Every morning Sully is already in the kitchen when I emerge, the low hum of the coffee machine filling the quiet space. Without a word, he slides my summer coffee across the island, cold brew with a splash of coconut milk and a drizzle of lavender honey. Cassidy makes fun of me for having a seasonal coffee order as this is what I have for summer. Fall will be a spiced maple chai latte, spring is a rose and vanilla honey latte, and for winter it is a salted dark chocolate hazelnut mocha. It’s oddly specific, but it’s what I’ve always done. I don’t always stick to the same drinks every year, I mix it up a little. Is that weird?

He turns to make Cassidy’s drink next, her usual vanilla oat milk latte with honey. I lean against the counter opposite him, unable to stop myself from watching. His back is to me, the thin fabric of his T-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders as he reaches for the oat milk. The muscles in his arms flex when he pours, and a faint sheen of sweat from his morning run still clings to the back of his neck. My eyes trace the line of his spine, the way his shorts sit low on his hips. Heat pools low in my belly before I can stop it. He turns around suddenly, with a mug in his hands, and our eyes lock. For a split second he catches me staring. His gaze holds mine, dark and unreadable. My cheeks burn, and I expect him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. He just slides Cassidy’s drink across the island like nothing happened, then turns back to the machine without a word.

He comes grocery shopping with us. Sully pushes the cart, while Cassidy and I wander the aisles filling it. Every time I reach for something on a high shelf, he’s suddenly there, arm brushing mine as he grabs it without being asked. He never says anything, just places it in the cart and keeps walking like the whole interaction never happened.

A few kids and teens notice him almost immediately, wide-eyed whispers turning into shy approaches. One boy, no older than twelve, asks for a photo with his phone shaking. Sully crouches down to his level, smiles that easy, genuine smile, and signs the kid’s hat with a Sharpie one of the moms quickly hands over. A couple of teenage girls hover nearby, giggling and asking for selfies. He’s patient with all of them, kind in that effortless way that makes my chest feel strangely warm. I forget that he’s famous because he’s always been Connor Sullivan, Cassidy’s twin, not Sully, two-time cup winner. This is a side of him I’ve never really seen before. I find it oddly adorable, because he’s so good with everyone, even when he isn’t in the mood. He gives them all the same attention and time. When we get home, he carries every single bag up from the car in one trip, muscles flexing under his shirt. I pretend I’m not watching the way his forearms strain. I fail.

Movie nights are the worst.

Cassidy has now claimed the armchair for herself, which means Sully has to join me on the big couch. He sits on one end, I sit on the other, a full cushion of deliberate no-man’s-land between us that neither of us will acknowledge out loud. But I’m painfully aware of every shift of his body, every time his thigh accidentally brushes the middle cushion, every low chuckle that vibrates through the fabric and into my bones. Sometimes, our eyes meet in the dark when something funny happens on screen.

It’s torture.

And the worst part is … I’m almost certain he feels it too.

Then there are the times he comes home from training with wet hair and his gear bag slung over one shoulder, dumping it beside the hall cupboard where it absolutely does not belong. Then he raids the fridge like a man who burned ten thousand calories, telling us about Bouch’s latest disaster while he eats half a rotisserie chicken with his fingers. I watch him from behind my sketchbook, eyes tracing the damp strands of hair curling at the nape of his neck, the way his training shirt clings to his back. Every time he turns around, I quickly look back down at the page, pretending I’m focused on lines and shadows instead of the way his jaw moves when he chews.

One night we decide to cook together while Cassidy runs down to the local Italian restaurant to grab a Tiramisu. Sully’s in charge of the pasta while I handle the sauce. The kitchen isn’t big enough for both of us, so we keep brushing against each other, his hip against my side when he reaches for the salt, my arm grazing his chest when I grab the wooden spoon. Every touch feels electric, charged, but neither of us acknowledges it.

He’s behind me at one point, reaching over my shoulder for the pepper grinder, and his chest presses lightly against my back for half a second. I freeze, as does he. I can feel the heat of his body, the dampness of his shirt from the steam, the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a moment neither of us moves.

Then he clears his throat and steps back. “Sorry,” he mutters, voice lower than usual.

“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.

The silence that follows is heavy. I stir the sauce a little too vigorously, trying to ignore the low ache in my belly. Sully goes back to the pasta, but I catch him glancing at me from the corner of his eye. His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white around the wooden spoon.

We finish the meal in charged silence, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying. When Cassidy finally bursts back in with the tiramisu, laughing about something the cashier said, the spell breaks.