Ogle someone else’s boyfriend, bitch,I send telepathically.
She doesn’t even register me at first—just stands there, eye-fucking him while I sit on the bed in my morning glory, apparently invisible.
“Your breakfast, sir,” she purrs. Her gaze finally sweeps the room and lands on me. “And ma’am,” she adds, like an afterthought.
“Just pop it on the table. Thank you, Jessica,” Lance drawls.
Of course he reads her name badge. She damn near faints with happiness and goes from crimson to full tomato as she scuttles out. Lance closes the door, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, still grinning.
“Tell me,” I squawk, pouting like a petulant child.
“Could you be any more unfriendly without speaking?” He laughs. “Jesus, Katie, I could feel your venom from over here.”
“I don’t appreciate women openly ogling my man,” I huff. “You’re hard to miss, but for fuck’s sake, she’s meant to be professional. I could see her undressing you from the doorway.”
He smirks, comes over, and cups my face, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “There’s only you, Katie.”
Heaven help me.
***
Why would anyone do this for pleasure? Strap two knives to their feet and attempt to walk on ice?
Bloody idiots.
Lance swore ice skating would be romantic and fun. Never having done it before, I believed him. Right now, clinging to the rink wall for dear life, I’m plotting his death.
Ten meters. That’s as far as my terrified body allowed me to move in fifteen minutes. A whole ten meters of slow, clumsy shuffle. Meanwhile, children and pensioners whizz past me like they’re auditioning for the Olympics, sending me wobbling every time they breeze by.
Lance glides up beside me. “Hold onto me.”
I grab his hand and immediately overbalance. He steadies me with an arm around my waist, his body a solid, reassuring line behind me. Together, we inch our way around the rink, his hands firm on my hips as I tremble and curse under my breath.
“I need a drink,” I tell him when we finally escape the ice. He grins at me like a loon.
“Your wish is my command, ma’am.” He gives a ridiculous bow and offers me his arm.
People are watching, amused. My cheeks burn.
“Lance,” I hiss. “People are staring.”
“Let them,” he shrugs. “Why do you care?”
“Ustogether,” I mutter. “We’re… unconventional. I don’t like people watching. It makes me feel like a freak show.”
“You’re embarrassed to be seen out with me?” His eyes cloud, voice suddenly serious.
“No, of course not.” My throat tightens. “I’m very aware of how much older I look than you. That’s all. I hate the idea of people whispering behind our backs.”
He doesn’t answer. “Let’s go get that drink,” is all he says, taking my hand and weaving us through the crowds. His mood drops, but he doesn’t touch the age thing again. He doesn’t want to go there.
The Edinburgh Christmas market sprawls around the rink, twinkling with fairy lights. Rows of wooden huts, holly drapedalong their roofs, sell everything from glass baubles to socks. Carols float over the loudspeakers. People stagger past us with armfuls of junk and massive grins.
We buy hot chocolates and find a bench, watching families bustle by, cheeks pink, hands full, eyes bright. Joy is everywhere. It’s impossible not to feel it.