My spine stiffens. What are the odds of Jenna being right and Parker seeing me at the ice rink. “And?”
“You canceled so you could… go ice skating?”
“It’s none of your business.”
He throws his head back, dark brown hair going in every direction and chuckles. “I mean it kind of is.”
“How?”
“You’re my psychologist.”
“I’m your performance coach.”
“Yet you’re not coaching me. At least I never canceled on you.”
“All the times you were late added up. Now you know how it feels.” I pop my hip.
“Ouch.”
His eyes sweep over me.
Black leggings.
Lavender fitted sweater, showing mytoo manycurves.
Hair loose under my knit cap.
No glasses.
His eyes glaze over. “You look different.”
“So do you.”
He glances down at himself. “You mean without my equipment?”
“I mean on ice.”
“Fair.” He glides backward smooth as silk. Everything about him is easy.
“You’re good,” I say.
“You’ve seen me skate for thirty seconds.” His smile widens. For most women, I’m sure that’s all it takes. It’s unfair that some people get the looks and the athleticism.
I shake my head. “I’ll addcan’t take a complimentto your list of annoying attributes.”
Without thinking, we settle into an easy rhythm, ourskates gliding over the ice in long looping circles around the rink. Parker takes longer strides than I do, powerful pushes that eat up the ice like he’s not even trying.
I skate differently—tighter edges, controlled turns that come from years of drill and discipline under a ruthless man.
Somehow we keep pace.
The chill stings my lungs as I inhale, burning just enough to remind me I’m alive and the tension that chased me from my office earlier loosens. On the ice my body remembers what to do without asking permission from my brain. Push. Glide. Turn. Repeat.
Parker drifts beside me, then suddenly pivots and skates backwards doing crossovers with an ease that catches my attention. His balance is solid, shoulders relaxed, his edges cutting smooth lines as if he has been doing this for years. And I guess he has. This isn’t someone fumbling around the rink a few times per year. This is muscle memory.
I study him for another lap before my curiosity wins.
“When did you learn to skate?” I ask.