Page 3 of My Rival for Christmas

Paige laughed then, but she’s not laughing now.

Of course she’s not. I have no doubt that she went home and spent the entire weekend overthinking the whole situation until Ivan and Stassi started to look suspiciously like Paige and me.

And now she needs reassurance it won’t happen.

“Someone is a little full of themselves,” I tease, twisting my black baseball cap backwards, as I come to a stop in front of her.My blades make a sharphissas I do. “What makes you think I’m going to fall in love with you? You could just as easily fall in love with me.”

“Please,” she huffs, her lips twitching as if that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard and she’s trying to keep from laughing.

It ignites something in my chest. “Oh? You think that’s funny?”

Before Paige can say anything else, my hands latch onto her tapered hips, giving them a tight squeeze.

She’s not smiling now.

But I am.

“I think you’re overestimating how cute your grandma says you are,” Paige says, as I push off, leading us as we meander around the rink. My hands are still fastened to her hips as we skate in tandem. Trusting me to keep her safe with her back to the world.

Always trusting me.

“Are you calling Granny a liar?” I pinch her hip.

She yelps, smacking my wrist with a glare that’s as intimidating as a feral kitten. “Betty has glaucoma.”

“Your point?” My foot skates forward as hers goes back. Easy. Effortless. As simple as breathing.

“She hasn’t seen your collection of these yet.” The tip of her finger is feather-soft as she touches the tattoo she’d just been eyeing. Almost unsure as she slowly traces the curve of the rocks at the base of the river, through every ripple of the water. She brushes against the bristles of the forest tree branches.

Slow, tender, thorough.

As if mesmerized by the woodland scenery I’ve recently added to my arm. Completely unaware how each stroke of her cool finger sets another inch of my skin ablaze, igniting a fire bright enough to melt the ice we’re skating along. A hungry, desperate thing wanton for her touch.

We’ve touched and grabbed and groped more times than I can count. There is no such thing as modesty in skating when it comes to making sure your partner won’t fall when you hold them above your head or swing them around your neck. Our touching has always had a purpose. Always kept professional.

But lately, it’s hard to ignore how different it feels to have my hands on Paige.

Or her hands on me.

My entire body is focused on the back and forth motion she’s now tracing along my forearm. I don’t even know if she’s conscious that she’s doing it.

Meanwhile I have to make a concentrated effort to push the feelings her touch, her laugh, her looks, her voice stirs up. Push them down into a dark box with three locks in an attempt to keep them at bay.

Because of Paige’s rules.

Because of the contract.

Because of the promise I know I’m going to make her.

My hands tighten around her waist, a sudden fear that I won’t get to do this forever. That she will never be mine.

And I’m desperate to hold on for as long as I can.

For as long as I can take these growing emotions eating away at my sanity.

While she remains completely oblivious. Focused on skating. Always skating.

I don’t even think she realizes Christmas is a few days away, despite the decorations lining the New York streets we walked down earlier or the enormous tree in Rockefeller Center that tourists elbowed past us to see. Much less noticing how when she touches me, I’m left in agony.

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