Page 65 of Love so Cold

"Absolutely," Samantha adds, her gaze never leaving the rink.

Silence blankets us, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the scrape of skates and the occasional shout from Victor. We're four statues, watching a scene we've seen a hundred times before, yet the air feels different today—charged with tension, like the sky before a storm.

"Is Avery Bennett here?" A man's voice cuts through the din, and I stiffen. I don't make a move to turn around.

"Over here," Samantha calls out, feigning my identity with a sly grin.

"Here you are, ma'am." The man extends a single stem rose toward her, a note dangling from its trimmed stem.

"Thanks," she says cheerfully, accepting the unwanted gift.

My heart thuds against my ribs as I lunge for the rose, but Samantha's already springing up the bleachers, her laughter trailing behind her like a taunt.

"Give it back, Sam!" I shout, my breath coming fast as I chase her up the steps. There's no use in trying to keep up with her, though. Sam ran track in high school, whereas I was only ever in an art studio.

By the time I catch up, Samantha's already got the note open and by the looks of it, she's read it. I make my way up the last few stairs, my breath heaving from exertion, but as I look at her, her face has lost all traces of mirth.

"Look, Avery, I know you're mad at Victor, but maybe he really is trying," she says, sorrow etched into the lines of her face.

"Just give it to me," I snap, snatching the items from her hand.

The rose feels like a lead weight. The note—unassuming—burns hotter than a live coal. I stare at it, willing myself to tear it to shreds, but something stops me. Curiosity? Masochism? Who knows.

Samantha watches me, her expression a silent plea as I fold the note and put it back into the envelope unread. It's just ink on paper. Just Victor reaching out again, I convince myself.

"Read it when you're ready," Samantha whispers, patting my shoulder before she descends the bleachers.

I stand there alone, watching Samantha settle back into her seat next to Emily and Jessica. I force myself to unfold the note and the sounds of the rink fade around me, the world narrowing down to the scrawl of blue ink that could change everything-or leave me right where I am.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Avery

I'm elbow-deep in suds,my fingers wrinkled like prunes, when Olivia pads into the kitchen. Her gaze hovers over me for a second too long before it clicks.

"Mom, you're not even washing anything," she says with that furrowed brow of hers that's way too wise for ten years old. "You're just... scrubbing the sink."

"Am I?" The words tumble out as I glance down, the green scouring pad in my hand working over the stainless steel like there's no tomorrow. My shoulders deflate, the tension seeping out. "I guess I'm more anxious about tonight's board meeting than I thought."

"You need to chill, Mom." She reaches up, patting my arm with her small, warm hand. "It'll work out. It always does, right?"

"Right." I muster up a smile and flick some bubbles her way, which earns me an eye roll.

"Go work on your project," she says suddenly, nudging me away from the sink.

"Liv, I can't?—"

"Mom, seriously. You haven't touched it for so long, and I know you love it." She's insistent, her eyes full of something fierce and supportive. "You should finish it."

"Since when did you get so grown up?" I ask, even though I know she's been my rock in pigtails since forever.

Olivia grins, all gap-toothed and cheeky. "Gonna go do my homework. No more sink-scrubbing, promise?"

"Promise." Watching her skip off, I dry off my hands, feeling the weight of unfinished dreams calling me.

Stepping onto the patio, a shiver races up my spine. Worcester's chill doesn't care about timing or moods. I dart back inside, grab the chunkiest jacket hanging by the door, and swing it over my shoulders. It's not just the cold that's biting; it's the anticipation nipping at my heels.

With the jacket zipped to my chin, I make my way back outside. The huge board looms in front of me, draped under a canvas like a secret begging to be told. With a hesitant hand, I reach out and pull back the cover. There it is, my half-finished world in colored shards, staring back at me.

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