Page 83 of Hometown Heart

"Let's hope so. My dignity can't afford the hit of face-planting in front of half the town." My joke barely covered the anxiety beneath. It wasn't just about skating—it was about being seen, being watched, stepping out from behind my coffee counter and into the world.

"I'll catch you," Jack promised, the words carrying more weight than I think he'd intended.

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Well, with that kind of safety net, how can I resist?"

We finished lacing up and approached the ice together. Jack stepped onto the frozen surface first. I hesitated at the edge, one foot hovering over the ice.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked, brows raised slightly.

I shook my head. "Not even close." And I meant it. The time for second thoughts had long passed where Jack was concerned.

I pushed off, gliding forward with a confidence that surprised even me. My first few strokes were cautious and testing, but I found my rhythm within moments, cutting a clean path across the harbor.

Jack followed, quickly catching up to skate beside me. "Not bad for someone who hasn't done this in years."

"Muscle memory," I replied with a half-smile. "Though if we're being technical, I haven't skated on the harbor since high school. I've been on the arena ice for pickup games." The admission slipped out easier than expected.

"Still hiding your talents, Brewster?" Jack's teasing tone wrapped around me like a warm blanket.

"No judging my technique," I warned, grinning with mock seriousness. "I'm a coffee artisan, not an Olympian."

"As long as you don't fall on your ass," he teased, "your reputation as Whistleport's most dignified purveyor of caffeine remains intact."

We completed a circuit of the makeshift rink, gradually finding a shared rhythm. Around us, families skated in loose groups—parents helping toddlers find their balance, teenagers showing off with spins and jumps, older couples gliding with the smooth synchronicity of decades of practice.

Mr. Peterson and his wife moved past us, their hands clasped as they navigated the ice with cautious determination. Henodded as they passed, his acknowledgment including Jack as naturally as it did me.

Dottie Perkins called out a greeting from where she sat bundled on the shore, supervising rather than participating, but missing nothing. Her sharp eyes followed our every move.

"I feel like we're being evaluated," I murmured, nodding toward where Dottie sat with several other Whistleport matriarchs. The town's unofficial approval committee, armed with thermoses and critical opinions.

"Always," Jack agreed. "This town has elevated people-watching to an Olympic sport."

"And what's our current score?" I asked, suddenly curious about how we appeared to others—skating side by side, our movements falling into natural synchronization.

Jack pretended to consider, scanning the faces of our observers. "Solid eight out of ten. You lost points for wearing the wrong brand of winter hat."

"Tragic," I deadpanned. "I'll never recover."

As we completed another lap, I suddenly stumbled, my skate catching on a rough patch of ice. Jack reached out instinctively, catching my elbow to steady me. My hand gripped his forearm, fingers pressing through the layers of his coat. We held that position for a heartbeat too long, balance restored, but neither of us pulled away.

"Thanks," I said, my voice lower than intended.

"Anytime," he replied, the word carrying a weight that settled in my chest.

We continued skating, but something had shifted between us—an unspoken acknowledgment of where we stood with each other. His hand found its way to the small of my back as we navigated around a family with small children. My shoulder pressed against his as we paused to watch Cody demonstrate a particularly complicated hockey move for his admiring friends.

The night air was crisp, carrying the promise of one final winter storm before spring's arrival. Our breath formed clouds that mingled in the space between us, visible evidence of shared air, shared space.

"Want to take a break?" Jack suggested after our third circuit. "There's cocoa on shore."

I shook my head, suddenly not wanting this moment to end. "Actually, I'd like to keep going. But maybe..." I gestured toward the far end of the harbor, away from the main group of skaters. "Over there? It's quieter."

Jack understood immediately. "Lead the way."

We skated toward the harbor's edge, where the ice stretched in a natural extension beyond the lantern-marked boundaries. Here, the surface was less groomed, wilder, illuminated only by moonlight and the distant glow of the town's streetlamps. The sounds of laughter and conversation faded behind us.

I slowed, my blades making a softer sound against the untouched ice. Jack matched my pace, moving alongside me in comfortable silence. The harbor stretched before us, silver-white against the dark water beyond, like a blank page waiting to be written upon.

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