Page 32 of My Rival for Christmas

I start to tell him we have no way to actually pay for those—Kylie doesn’t even have her wallet on her, just her cards on her phone—when Nate places a hand on the small of my back, stopping me.

“I got it,” he tells me, pulling out another colorful twenty.

But I barely hear him. All my attention has diverted to the feel of his hand on my body. Electricity coils around my spine, shooting out from where his hand touches my sweater.

Fabric.Notskin.But I can feel him as if his palm kisses my flesh.

It feels different than when he grabbed my wrist or elbow earlier. More absentminded and gentle.

We are not gentle people. Never have been. Even when we skated together, it had a push and pull fight to it. Full of passion and heat.

But this touch feels so innocent, so kind.

It has short-circuited my brain. And he’s not even touching my skin!

Something is wrong with me tonight and I’m blaming it on exhaustion. Both physical and mental.

And the beard.

That damn beard.

It’s Nate,I try to tell my brain so it can get my body back on board.We don’t like him.

I swat his hand away and reach for one of the drinks. Downing half of it before I recoil, retching. “Oh my god, that tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

Nate frowns, clearly unpleased. “I thought I told Johnny to use the best cheap shit they have.” Without an invitation, he takes my glass, placing his lips where mine were and taking a sip. No reaction, like he’s drinking water. “Oh no, that’s fine. Margaret’s favorite.”

This place really is a dive.

Before I can ask who Margaret is, Kylie finally pulls herself away from the gentleman beside her.

Her eyes widen in shock when she sees who’s beside me. “Nate.”

“Kylie.” He raises his chin, tilting his beer at her, despite her less than welcoming tone.

Finding him hot is one thing, but Kylie’s loyalties will always lie with me, which means she is ten times meaner to him than me. On principle.

“I didn’t know they let deserters like you into a place like this.” Without waiting for an invitation, Kylie reaches over and grabs the other vodka soda. She sips it in appreciation. No recoil or retching. She really is in her element.

“No offense, Ky”—Nate looks around us—“but I think I fit in better than either of you.”

Silently, I have to agree. Not that I’d ever say that aloud. My allegiances lie with my best friend. So in my head is where the opinion will stay.

Nate does fit in better, though. Everything here has an edge, a celebration of imperfections, where it’s not pretending to be anything it’s not and Nate’s entire demeanor blends in much better than Kylie’s outfit that is worth hundreds of dollars and my preference for cleaner, less dingy establishments.

Just like in the lobby, there is a relaxedness to Nate here, like he doesn’t have to put on airs.

Like he can just breathe.

And I don’t think it has anything to do with the fresh mountain air, either.

This place is his home. His comfort.

So why has he never moved back?

I know on his left arm, on the inside bicep closest to his heart, he has a maple leaf with the Canadian flag decorating the inside. He loves where he’s from, but even when we skated together in the Winter Games, it was for America.

For me.

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