Off the Ice (Central State, #4)

by Jaqueline Snowe

It was incredible how he could do that, shake off his grief and be happy. It made me envious with how he’d moved on, healed, and found someone to make his life better. Every time I tried being happy or trusting another person, it backfired.

It was pretty incredible we had 26 letters and were able to create millions of words and stories and screenplays and poems.

“So,” I said, unsure of what to ask. I wanted to hear her speak and laugh and to learn more about her. “What’s your favorite book?” She sucked in a breath. “I don’t know.” “I find that hard to believe.” “Really. It’s too hard. I have lists of favorites and ones that I’ll always reread but a one-time favorite? I can’t.” “Top three then.”

“I need to cultivate the list, and it’ll take time. I like different books for different reasons. There are comfort reads, ones I’m saving for a shit day, the ‘pull my heart out and stomp on it to piece it back together’ reads. There’s the angst, the fluffy, the lighthearted. There are my favorite tropes too. Sometimes I’m in the mood for friends to lovers, other times second chance. See? I’m blabbing because there are too many choices.”

Cal refused to have feelings, and I was a girl who needed lots of them, which was why we were never meant to be.

“Shocking no one, but I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic. I want the swoons.”

“You know, the romantic gestures, the buzzing chemistry, the swept off my feet thing.

“Your life is different now,” Alex said, a rare smile on their face. “Priorities change. Your wants change. Doesn’t take more than a moment.”

“I’m selfish to ask this, but the bar closes in an hour. Can you wait for me?” “Of course, Cal. You’re worth waiting for.” Somehow, those words felt deeper than surface value. The intonation of her voice, the way her gaze heated at me. I kissed her forehead and forced myself to take a step back. The last thing I wanted to do was stop touching her, but I was at work. “One hour, then you’re mine.”

Everything was heightened. The smell of the elevator, like damp carpet. The cold press of the wall on my back. The heat of his touch and warmth of his gaze. The feel of his breath on my face before he bent low and kissed me. Oh, baby, he kissed me, slow, long strokes of his tongue and gentle touches of his lips. His heart thudded against mine through his chest, his hand moving to cover my throat. “No one,” he said, kissing down my jaw. “Has impacted my life like you.”

“I thought I’d lost you before I even had a chance with you,” he said, opening his door and guiding me in with a hand on my lower back. He spun me around, his large hands on my hips as he turned me. “I’m a lucky bastard that you’ll have me. I won’t blow it, Elle. I need you to know that.”

“Your dedication, your mind, your heart. I’m lucky I get a part of it.” “You own it.” His voice was more intense, aggressive. “You own my heart, Elle. Be careful with it, please.”