Page 21 of Holidate Scramble
"We don't have to—"
"I just wanted to say—"
"It's fine, really—"
We both stopped, then laughed nervously at our overlapping attempts.
"Can we maybe start over?" I asked. "Just enjoy today?"
Relief washed over his features. "I'd like that."
"Great!" I gestured to the skate rental booth. "Fair warning, though—I'm terrible at ice skating. Complete hazard to myself and others."
"Really? You strike me as someone who'd be good at everything."
"Flattering, but wildly inaccurate. I have exactly three skills: creating social media campaigns, hosting events, and making outstanding hot chocolate. Everything else is aspirational at best, catastrophic at worst."
He smiled, the tension between us easing. "Well, I played hockey for years. I could help you, if you'd like."
My pulse quickened at the thought of his hands steadying me. "That would be... helpful."
Twenty minutes later, I clung to the rink's edge like it was the only thing between me and certain death. Around us, children glided effortlessly, elderly couples held hands while making smooth circles, and teenagers showed off with spins and jumps. Meanwhile, I couldn't let go of the railing without my legs splaying in opposite directions.
"You're overthinking it," Rhett said, standing on the ice with frustrating ease. "Skating is about rhythm and balance."
"Two things I notably lack." I gripped the railing tighter. "Maybe I should stick to concessions."
"Trust me?" He extended both hands toward me.
I hesitated, then placed my mittened hands in his. He skated backward, gently pulling me away from the safety of the wall. My legs wobbled embarrassingly.
"Keep your knees slightly bent," he instructed, his voice taking on that calm, authoritative tone that sent a rush of warmth spiraling through my center. "Weight centered, eyes up, not down."
"If I don't look down, how will I know when I hit the ice face-first?"
"You won't hit the ice because I'm not going to let you fall." His grip tightened slightly. "Small steps, push and glide."
Slowly, with his hands providing steady support, I managed a few tentative strokes. When my balance faltered, his arm slipped around my waist, pulling me against his side. The firm, reassuring pressure of his body against mine steadied me in more ways than one.
"That's it," he encouraged. "You're getting it."
We made a full, wobbly circuit of the rink, his fingers laced through mine, his arm occasionally circling my waist when I teetered. Each touch sent awareness skittering through me despite the layers of winter clothing between us.
"See? Not so terrible." His breath formed clouds in the cold air.
"Only because you're basically carrying me." But I was smiling, the initial awkwardness between us dissolving into something easier, more natural.
"Another lap?" he asked.
I tilted my head in agreement, allowing him to guide me through another circuit. This time I focused less on my feet and more on him—the way his eyes crinkled at the corners whenhe smiled, how his hand engulfed mine completely, the gentle pressure of his fingers at my waist.
"You know," he said as we rounded a corner, "I haven't skated since moving here. I forgot how much I enjoyed it."
"Why did you stop?"
His expression turned contemplative. "Life got busy. Work consumed everything. It's easy to let the things you enjoy slip away, one missed opportunity at a time."
"Until you wake up one day and realize you've forgotten what makes you happy?"
