“Nate.”
His head snaps toward me, eyes so intense I feel a pinch in my chest.
Ignoring it, I hold up my watch, the countdown racing on it. “Do you want to talk decorations or do you want to skate?”
“With you, Princess?” His stare spells trouble. “Skating. Always.”
I don’t bother telling him how untrue that is.
We make it eleven minutes in before our first fight.
Nate is skating too close to me, and I yell at him to stick to his side of the lake.
Another five go by before we have our next.
Nate doesn’t understand where his side of the lake is. So we have to clear that up with some of the garland I angrily undo from the porch. Nate grumbles about me roughly handling the foliage as I lay it across the lake.
He gets a quarter of space. I get the rest. His punishment for not listening the first time.
We make it another fifteen minutes before I feel him watching me closely from his designated side.
I tell him to stop. But telling Nate not to do something is basically the same as telling a toddler. He’s going to pretend to listen for as long as it takes me to look away, and then his earnest, assessing eyes will be back on me. Cataloging everything I’m doing wrong.
Maybe if he stopped watching me, I would actually be able to do what I’m supposed to be doing.
I’ve never had stage fright. Crowds, and people watching me, usually make me want to perform well. If not show off.
It’s like there are two different Paiges.
On land, I’m the shy, introvert who is oftentimes stuck in her head. While on the ice, I’m this confident, powerful performer who thrives off praise.
At least, I used to.
Now I’m trying to ignore the way my skin hums under Nate’s unwavering attention.
I make it another twelve minutes before I’ve had enough.
My blades give an angryhissas I come to an abrupt stop as I spin out of my jump.
“This is ridiculous. You’re not even skating!” I shout at him. He’s just standing there watching me as I wrap my triple toe.
Again.
“You keep messing up,” he supplies oh-so-helpfully.
You look horrible in orange. You look horrible in orange.
The reminder isn’t stopping the edges of my vision from tinging red or my hands from curling into tight fists as I search for a deep breath.
And try to swallow my sharp retort.
Thethank you, Captain fucking Obviousfeels a little too middle school to really convey how annoyed I am with him right now.
So I just shoot him two middle fingers.
That’s better.
“Name the time and place, Montgomery.” His gaze simmers with thinly veiled amusement.