Page 22 of Break my Heart

It’s exhausting, and I’m tired of looking over my shoulder.

My eyes catch movement by the benches, and I freeze.

Hayes.

He’s sitting there, watching me, as if he has every right to do so.

My stomach flutters with nerves. Seeing him has become a weird kind of relief, even though I don’t want it to be. Even though he’s the last person I should be thinking about.

I take off in the opposite direction, attempting to ignore him, but it’s useless. His gaze is heavy and distracting. When I can’t stand another moment, I cave and skate toward him, coming to an abrupt stop a few feet away.

“What are you doing here?”

“Watching you skate,” he says easily, his voice calm and brimming with confidence.

I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “Why?”

“Why am I watching you?” His lips quirk into a half-smile, like the answer is obvious.

I give him a sharp nod.

He leans back, eyes thoughtful. “Maybe because you’re really good, and I find it... soothing.”

The breath I’d been holding whooshes from my lungs, leaving me speechless.

Soothing?

My brain is usually quick to fire back with something biting, something that will make him retreat.

But this?

I don’t know what to do with this.

“Do you have a problem if I like to watch?” His voice is lower now, a bit rougher, and when I meet his eyes again, there’s something in them that makes my pulse jump.

Heat floods my cheeks.

I blink, trying to find my footing, but it’s like he’s pulled the ice out from under me. “If you’re just watching me skate,” I manage to mumble.

“I am.” He grins, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Unless there’s something else you had in mind.” When I narrow my eyes in response, he changes the subject. “Did you used to compete?”

It’s a challenge to shove the memories back down where they belong.

“Yes.”

“But not anymore?”

“No.”

When I don’t elaborate, he asks, “How come?”

The air feels tight around me, like there’s not enough oxygen to go around. “I just don’t. End of story.”

His gaze sharpens, and for a second, I feel like he sees more than I want him to. More than I’m comfortable with. “I don’t believe that,” he says quietly. “Something tells me there’s more to the story. How about you tell it to me over coffee?”

I blink, thrown off by the casual invitation. “What?”

“Coffee,” he repeats. “It’s a drink. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before.”