No greeting. No explanation.
I frown at my screen. Stupid question.I can always fucking skate.
Me (9:45pm):Who is this?
Three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.
Unknown (9:46pm):Monroe.
Her name on my screen shouldn’t make my stomach drop.
And yet—
Me (9:47pm):I can skate.
Monroe (9:47pm):Meet me at the rink.
That’s it.
I don’t ask questions.
I grab my keys, my skates, and I get out of the door.
* * * *
The rink is quiet when I step inside. She’s already here. Already on the ice.
I lean my shoulder against the doorway and let myself look. Just for a second, before she notices me.
Gray cropped tank. Black leggings. White skates. A long auburn braid trailing down her back.
My gaze drags over her—the curve of her waist, the strength in her legs, the way her muscles flex beneath smooth skin. She hasn’t trained in a year, but fuck if you could tell.
Monroe takes a turn, gliding slowly, like she needs to think about putting one foot in front of the other, and I can’t look away. Her brows are furrowed in concentration.
Damn, she looks good.
I shake the thought off. There is no universe where me thinking Monroe Abrams looksabsolutely edibleends well for me.
“Look. At.You, Abrams.” I whistle low, appreciatively. I like playing with fire, apparently. She glances over and side-eyes me as I walk up to the rink boards. I lean forward, still watching her skate.
“You come for a show or you gonna get on the ice?” she calls across the rink to me, skating to a stop, one eyebrow cocked. Andfuck meif I don’t love a girl with an attitude.
“Do I have an option?” I smirk at her and she waits, letting me continue. “Because I’m going to choose the show every damn time.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head.
“Put your skates on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She snorts a laugh.
I quickly lace up my skates and join her on the ice, matching her slow, steady strokes. We don’t speak for a while, opting to just skate in silence. It’s not uncomfortable. I have the feeling she just needed company.
“You look good out here, Abrams.” I glide up in front of her and turn to face her.
“Shut up,” she snarks. “I didn’t text you to come here to give me compliments on my rudimentary skating skills.”
“First of all, I’m not talking about your skating skills,” I say and hear her retaliating huff. “Second, whydidyou text me to come here?”