Page 120 of Wild Then Wed
He drags a hand over his face but follows. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t have a whistle.”
I step onto the ice first—easy, practiced—then turn and hold out my hands.
He hesitates. “You sure about this?”
“Nope,” I say, wiggling my fingers. “But we’re committed now. No backing out.”
His palms meet mine, andfuck.His hands are warm, even in the cold, rough and broad enough to swallow mine whole. Mine look like they belong to a child in comparison. His are veiny and calloused, the kind of hands that could flip a tractor tire or drag a woman closer with a single tug.
I try not to think too much about any of that and shift my grip. “Okay. Bend your knees. Lean forward. And for the love of God,don’tstand up straight—you’ll go ass over backwards.”
He nods, his jaw tight. I can tell he’s concentrating like hell.
I step back slowly, pulling him with me. Gently. Praying to every winter god that he doesn’t go down. If he falls, his huge hulking ass is big enough that I’m going down with him—and probably ending up concussed.
We make it a few feet, inch by painful inch, his balance wobbling but holding.
“This is fucking impossible,” he grits out.
“Yeah, well, you’re built like a walking tree trunk. Grace was never in the cards for you, I’m afraid.”
He exhales a laugh, shaky but real, and I tighten my grip just slightly as we inch forward again. “You’re doing fine,” I tell him, and I mean it. He is. “You haven’t taken us both out yet. That’s something.”
He glances down at our skates. “Now what?”
“Now,” I say, grinning, “we survive. And pray no eight-year-olds take us out first.”
“That isn’t very reassuring,” Sawyer mutters, his skates clunking awkwardly against the ice. His legs are stiff, his knees boycotting the whole thing.
“You’ll live,” I say, then quickly add, “probably.”
He levels me with a look that could frost the rink all over again, and I smother a grin. Adjusting my grip on his hands, I guide us around the curve of the rink, the glow of Main Street’s Christmas lights haloing behind him. Overhead, the speakers crackle as Bing Crosby transitions into some jazzier version of “Let It Snow.”
There’s a determined scowl on Sawyer’s face, like he’s still trying to mentally outmaneuver gravity. Which is funny, considering the man could probably deadlift a small truck but is currently being out-skated by a toddler in a Paw Patrol puffer jacket.
I squeeze his hands and shift my tone to something lighter. “Okay. Let’s distract you. Why do you hate the holidays?”
His gaze flicks to mine, and it’s instinctive, sharp.
His eyes are a color you can’t quite pin down—blue, but not entirely. There’s green in there too, like lake water under a summer sky, shifting and stubborn. It makes them look alive. Watchful.
He lifts a brow. “Who says I hate the holidays?”
“I do. Call it a hunch.”
He lets out a short breath through his nose—something between amusement and avoidance—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You just…do. I can tell,” I say simply, like it’s not something I’ve been thinking about since Thanksgiving.
He’s quiet for a second. Concentrating, probably. On not falling. On how much space he’s taking up on the ice. On not running into the teenager barreling past us with zero regard for anyone’s personal safety.
But I’m watching him.
The stubble shadowing his jaw, rough enough that I can imagine how it’d feel against my palm. The slight bump in the bridge of his nose. That faint scar near his temple—old, faded, but there. And his mouth—soft-looking, full and a little tense in the corners, like there’s something he’s holding back.
Sawyer Hart is—fine, yes—annoyingly attractive. But that’s not what sticks. What sticks is howrealhis face looks up close. Not polished or perfect. Just lived in. Strong. A little weary. A little closed off.
