Page 36 of Secret Obsession
“No—”
He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t say no to you?”
“Exactly.”
The notion is ridiculous. I stand—and immediately regret my decision. Rising puts me chest-to-chest with him, and my face heats against my will. I meet his icy gaze.
How can he be socold?
“No,” I repeat. “No, no,no. See, Miles? You can’t just eradicate the word from my vocabulary.”
The corner of his lip lifts. Just a twitch. A smirk that was never supposed to slip past his mask, but I catch it and I find myself holding on to it.
“Move,” I demand.
“No,” he mimics.
He grabs my waist. I yelp when he swings me up into his arms and steps backward onto the ice. He cuts a path across the rink, to the far side where the fight happened. The Zamboni is only half finished, but I didn’t think about the slick path already cut. It’s one thing to walk on ice that’s been properly used, and another to think clean ice would be manageable in street shoes.
He sets me down once we’re through, heading to the locker room.
Too much bad shit happens in the locker room, so I wait outside the door. I can’t stop scanning the area, half convinced that he’s right, and Amanda is going to spring out of the shadows again. Not that I’d be particularly worried about fightingher. But by now, she could’ve rallied any number of girls to come help her.
Miles reappears silently and tips his head to the exit.
Maybe the paranoia is getting to me, because I don’t even offer him a snappy reply. I just follow.
“See?” Miles jerks his head.
Amanda leans against the hood of her car, just a few down from his, with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She blows smoke and rises. She glares at me.
I stick close to Miles, and he opens the passenger door for me.
“Watch yourself, Reed,” Amanda calls.
“Fuck off, Henderson,” I yell. “I could press charges, you know. Good luck finding your next job, psycho—”
“Willow.” Miles shoves my head down and into the car.
I hit the seat with a huff and barely get my feet in before he slams the door. He gets in and starts it, blasting the heat.
“I hate winter,” he says under his breath.
I twist to face him. “You play a winter sport.”
“It’s temperature controlled,” he responds.
“It would help if you wore a coat. It’s like fifteen degrees out and you’re only wearing…”
A delicious sweater.
Not that I’d ever call it delicious out loud, but that’s exactly what it is. It clings to his arm muscles and his torso, outlining his broad shoulders and tapered waist. The dark-blue color brings out the blue in his eyes.
Freaking hell, I’m a disaster.
I turn my attention to the window, just in time to catch Amanda’s glare from the driver’s seat of her car. I flip her off for the hell of it.
