Page 40 of My Rival for Christmas

“When was the last time putting on your skates made you feel excited and not like an obligation?”

The cavity in my chest opens, beating like a deep, hollow ceremonial drum as Nate skates closer and closer.

I start to answer, but nothing comes out. My mouth just hangs kind of open, unable to say anything.

There’s nothing to say.

Because I don’t remember.

“You skate every day, Paige.”

Because I’m terrified of what will happen if I stop.

“And yet you look miserable out here.”

“Maybe that’s just the company.”

“Maybe,” he agrees easily. Softly. “But I’m willing to bet it happens when I’m not around, too.”

I don’t answer him. But I keep holding his stare, even if internally I’m clawing to look away. To keep the vulnerability hidden.

But how far can it hide if he already sees it?

“What are you afraid of, Princess?”

Now this answer comes easy.

I’m afraid of failure. Of being forgotten. Of dedicating my entire life to a sport to only have it turn against me. To know I never really had a talent for it at all.

I’m afraid of so much.

I barely register him grabbing my waist as I sway. Unsteady on my skates when I’m usually surefooted. It’s not until I feel a soft caress of his thumb that I realize he’s holding me.

My heart thumps heavily in my chest, heat wrapping around my neck like a scarf as Nate slowly brushes flecks of snow off my cheek. His deeply blue eyes trap me.

“What are you afraid of?” His words whisper against my lips, as his breath fogs my vision.

I feel him against my skin, his warmth, his solidness. It spreads across my body until he brushes against every particle of my being.

This. I’m afraid of this. Of this visceral feeling his close proximity always brings.

It feels like I’m going to burn through my skin.

Not that I let him know that as I give him a stare as cool as the temperature in the air, trying to melt the heat coursing between us. “Your breath. It stinks.”

Nate flashes me his medal-winning smile. The over-the-top, showing-all-his-teeth smile that charms the judges and cameras every time he flashes it.

Slimy. Fake. Wrong.

I’m so taken aback by it that I almost miss the gum poking out from between his clamped teeth.

Snaking his tongue out, Nate flicks it back into his mouth. That performance smile fading until only his familiar, cocky smirk remains. “Nice try, sweetheart. Want to try again?”

“No.” I push against his chest, but Nate grabs my waist.

Stopping me. Pulling me back in.

“Why do you keep running from me?” His voice is strained. As if this is a question that’s been trying to crawl its way out for a while.

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