Page 37 of Class Act

Ford’s amused voice entered a second before his head showed above hers. “Are you okay?”

He reached out a gloved hand, and I took it without thinking, letting him pull me to standing. The motion was faster than I expected, coupled with the fact I was on ice, and I tumbled up against him, ending with my nose pressed against his chest. His arms came around me quickly, somehow holding me up and keeping us both from falling as my legs slipped and slid beneath me. For me, the moment froze. Even through all the layers of my clothing, I could feel the muscles in his arms and the firmness of his chest. His breath puffed against my forehead as he laughed, and I felt as though I were in a dream, when my own arms launched around his neck to hold on tight . . . which kind of, accidentally, sort of turned into hugging him closer as the motion had my feet skidding forward to bracket his.

“I’ve got you; you won’t fall,” he soothed, amusement still lacing his tone.

I freed my face from his squashed position and nodded, my mouth unable to form words as I soaked in a feeling better than any of the daydreams I’d given up on. He smelled good, he felt good, his voice wove its way into me, calming and soothing. It took extreme willpower not to turn my head to press my cheek against his shoulder and beg him to let me stay.

“Who was that you were holding hands with?” Hillary asked.

Her voice and her question were the equivalent of slapping my face with an ice-cold rag. I quickly released Ford and skated a step, reaching up to smooth down my hair before tugging at the bottom of my coat.

“He’s . . .”

“He’s her date,” Ford stated, those gray eyes smiling at my obvious discomfort.

“It’s such a surprise seeing you here,” I said, looking down at Hillary, where it was safe.

I hadn’t noticed quiet Henry joining us, but he stood solemnly next to his sister, watching everything.

“Sorry again that I knocked you over.” Hillary pulled a face. “I thought it would be funny to sneak up on you, but Daddy said to leave you alone while you were with that man. Who is he?”

“His name is Shane.”

“Are you in love with him?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I only met him tonight. We’re on a blind date.”

“But I thought holding hands was for being in love.” She tilted her head sideways with a questioning look.

“Sometimes it’s for keeping me from falling down. Did you have to hold your dad’s hand when you were learning?” She nodded, and I looked back at Ford, feeling a pressing need to make him understand. “I tried to tell him I’m not very athletic, but he’d already bought tickets to skate tonight.”

“It’s not a bad move, bringing a girl somewhere where she’s forced to cling to you all night,” he replied with a grin.

His nonchalant answer was a pinprick reminder that he’d have no reason to care that I was on a date. His stance was clear, and he hadn’t asked for or needed an explanation from me. I used the dull throb of sadness to firm up my resolve. After a silent, deep breath I got back into the zone and laughed at his comment. Sure, the laugh was a little late, and his expression said it was ill-timed, too, so I doubled down by rolling my eyes.

During my eye roll--which may have been a little excessive--I caught sight of Shane skating toward us. I gestured to him. “Looks like he’s back. It was fun to see you, Hillary.”

I turned to move back toward Shane, who was almost upon us. I wasn’t sure about the protocol for introducing blind dates to former figments of your imagination, but it seemed like something to avoid. So I threw a wave behind me and met him several yards away. He held out his hand and I took it, even though I knew I was being watched. My face heated as I realized I could still feel the warmth of Ford pressed against me.

“Who was that?” Shane asked as we got moving again.

“A girl I taught last year,” I did my best to smile up at him.

We resumed circling the rink, and I forced myself to engage more with him during this second half of our skating adventure. I laughed quite a bit, and I did my level best to be the most delightful person he’d ever met. I refused to make eye contact with the Whittakers or to compare and contrast Ford and Shane. Ford, all golden and charming. Shane, all dark and sort of damaged, somehow. I must have managed to give off the performance of a lifetime, because suddenly Shane tugged me to a stop and turned me to face him.

His eyes searched mine, and before I could read the look in them, his lips were headed toward mine. His hands had moved to grasp my shoulders, but with the height difference and the fact I was neither expecting nor wanting his kiss, I lurched backwards while he was still bending.

The end result was that no lips made contact, but I slammed to the ground with his full weight landing on top of me. My head cracked against the ice, followed by his chin slamming against my forehead, and then I felt a sharp pain in my left wrist. I’d involuntarily reached back to stop our fall, and now my wrist was bent at a strange angle beneath the two of us. Pain shot up to my elbow, and I let out a muffled exclamation. Shane seemed stunned. At least that was the explanation I came up with based on the way he kept laying there making no move to get up. My wrist was going to snap if I couldn’t get this weight off of it, so I shoved at him with my right hand.

“Get off!” I cried.

My voice woke him from whatever stupor of idiocy he was caught in, and he put his hands on either side of my head before pushing off and rolling to his back. I rolled to my right side and freed my wrist, hugging it to my chest and taking huge gulping breaths of air. The man was a behemoth. My head throbbed, my wrist throbbed, and when skates popped into view followed by Ford’s handsome face bending down, I felt tears gather at the corner of my eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, his head tilted sideways.

I rolled onto my back and shook my head as my throat grew thick. I was hurt, embarrassed, and a little angry that Shane had tried to kiss attack me. I turned my head to look at Shane. He’d sat up and was rubbing at his chin. Oh, yeah, that’s right, he’d chin-butted me on landing. It was all I could do not to glare up at him when he finally looked down.

“You okay?” he asked. At least he sounded sincerely concerned, which helped me feel less steamed.

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