Page 9 of My Rival for Christmas

It’s worse.

Much worse.

“Nate,” she practically spits.

It’s like a record scratching in my head, and for the second time in mere minutes, I think I’ve misheard what is being said to me. Because there is no way, no possible way, that Nate is here.

That heavy feeling in my stomach intensifies, making me feel sick as Kylie points a festively manicured nail across the room.

Right at the man I am cursed to never forget.

Nathan Ford.

What is he doing here?

“It’s just not fair how the worst people can be so attractive. Why didn’t you tell me he’d gotten this fine?” Kylie shakes her head, while I try to take a deep breath.

“Because he hasn’t.”

“Girl, I know we hate the guy, but please tell me you’ve been to your eye doctor lately because there is no way we are looking at the same man and not thinking he isn’t walking sex on a six-foot stick.”

Six-two,I correct silently, before forcing myself to look at Nate. Really look at him.

As my eyes sweep over his familiar form, I’m immediately hit with regret.

Nate Ford has always been too attractive for his own good. And he knows it, often using his genetically blessed features to his advantage.

The sad thing is, he barely has to try. The man has pretty privilege.

With his charming smile and laid-back attitude, paired with his tattooed forearms on display, the rich black ink disappearing under his pushed-up sleeves, alluding to more hidden away, and his not one buttwoonyx stud earrings in each earlobe, it’s a lethal combination of seduction on a good day.

But here? As I stare at him from across the lobby, even I start to feel a little flush brush against my body as I take in his bearded face.

A beard.

He has a beard.

I’ve never seen Nate with a beard.

Occasionally, I’ve seen him sport some scruff from two days worth of not shaving, but figure skating is very big on a certain image. Tattoos are easy enough to cover up, if not limiting on costume choices, but facial hair is a big no-no. While I’ve seen some skaters have a very minimal amount at some competitions recently, it’s nothing like what Nate’s sporting now.

Thick and dark, like his hair that’s hidden behind one of his signature backwards hats, it makes him look… Not older but more rugged, like he’s built for the outdoors. More of a mountain man or hockey player than figure skater.

Not that he’s never not been an ice skater, but there’s always been this roughness about him that’s refused to polish. He approaches the sport so differently than his competitors, making him stick out as different. Not wrong, but untraditional. It’s what makes him so captivating to watch when he skates.

But as comfortable as he is on the ice, I’ve never seen him look more at home than with the sugar-capped mountains stretched behind him.

Not that I’m paying a lick of attention to the view.

My entire focus is glued to Nate.

The person I won gold with. The one who snuck past all my defenses.

The man who broke my heart. In more ways than one.

My ex-partner. My rival.

I tell myself it’s because I’ve never seen him look like this, like he’s a completely different person. Transformed into someone he’s most comfortable being.

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