Page 42 of Undone

I nod. “I like it in here.”

She hums under her breath. “It’s not too bad. Thanks again, for letting me move in. I don’t really . . . I don’t have a ton of friends, so I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.”

There’s a slight laugh under her words, but it isn’t funny, almost self-deprecating.

My heart squeezes slightly. I want to say I could be your friend—if you want to be mine. But the anxiety over even hinting at my own desperation is enough to have me slumping again with defeat.

“Yeah. Me neither,” I say. Because it’s the only thing that makes sense in the swirling mess of my brain. “Never really been good at the whole making-friends bit.”

My cheeks blush at the low, quick admission.

Paloma heads to the doorway of her room and nods. “C’mon then, friend. Pizza will be here soon, and I want to paint my nails again.” She hesitates, before adding quietly, “I can do yours, too, if you want.”

I nod like a bobblehead, letting the thrill of being around her fill me like a leaky balloon. If my history is anything to go by, this happy floating feeling will fade. But for now, I’ll savor it.

• • •

It’s cold in the rink the next morning and my legs are feeling the burn of skating again—my body still getting used to the movements once more, but there’s a warmth to my chest that can only be explained by the lack of an overseer standing at the glass.

This morning, it’s just me and Toren setting up, both distant and quiet.

He’s circling the rink when I step onto the ice, warming up his body as he cracks his neck. Dressed again in tight black material, this time he’s in a half-zip with a white check on the chest pocket area and black sweatpants half tucked into his skates. He looks bored and devastatingly handsome, ignoring me entirely though I know I’m not quiet as I make my way to the bench and drop my things, before taking off after him.

I should ignore him too, but it’s impossible. I’ve always been a little addicted to Toren Kane, and having him in my space again, so close, it’s a temptation I can’t resist.

“I heard you have a game today,” I finally say, breaking the silence as I glide up next to him. I can’t tell if it’s in my imagination or not, but he picks up speed as he takes crossovers on the sides.

I can do them too. But mine are messy and inexperienced—I can barely keep up.

“Yep,” he says, flat, keeping his gaze away from me.

Skating a little faster, despite the burning at the tops of my thighs, I make my way closer to him. “Well, good luck.”

This time his eyes flick toward me, running over the short length of my body quickly—from my pristine white skates to my unusual choice of black leggings and a lilac jacket. His jaw clenches like I told him to go kick rocks and not a kind sentiment.

“Should I expect you in the stands then, LaBlanc?” he asks, suddenly spinning around to glide backward with his intense eyes on mine. The effect of him, of his stare, is embarrassing, heat flooding my cheeks with renewed warmth.

Having his full attention has always felt like standing directly in the sun, only more addictive.

“You don’t have to be mean.” I shake my head with a pout I can’t stop as I continue toward him, his pace much easier to match, though I don’t read too much into it. “I was just trying to be nice.”

He’d been . . . protective, that day in my house. I wouldn’t admit that the signs were stupid, regardless of what he thought of them; they were a smart idea, and I did have a lot of people reach out. Still, it was as close to an olive branch I’d seen from Toren.

So this was my attempt.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” I say, trying one last time to lighten the tension.

“Hmm,” he grumbles. “I’m sure.” We both stop by the bench, but Toren’s head flickers up to the glass again, like he’s checking for something, before he spins and pushes my back into the boards. Not hurtful, but not gentle, either—the same way he’s always handled my body.

I lose my balance, grasping his biceps to stay upright. He’s so big, muscles hard beneath my hands.

“Why don’t you want to see me play?” he asks, voice dropping into a smoky taunt that nearly makes me moan. “Hot date tonight?”

My brain feels fuzzy. “W-what?”

“I said do you have some hot date tonight, Lil?” The nickname slipping off his tongue doesn’t help. He leans down and skims his nose against my throat, leaving his mouth against my left ear. “The little prep asshole from last week, hmm? Maybe you should bring him. Might help for him to know the truth.”

“What truth?”