boy he had once been on his mother and father’s backyard rink.
He whooped his delight, thrust hard against the ice, surged forward. He flew down the length of the pond, raced the edges of it, skidded to a halt in a spray of white ice, turned, skated backwards at full speed, crossed his legs one over the other, and then raced around the pond the other way in a huge, swooping circle.
He moved faster than a person without wings or a motor should be able to move, delighted in his strength and the clear cold and the freedom. He delighted in knowing her eyes followed him.
He knew he was showing off for her, did not care what it meant. He raced down the ice to where she stood, swooped by her, snatching her toque off her head, challenging her new skills.
Game as always, Emma took off after him, those curls gone crazy. He teased her unmercifully, skating by her, making loops around her, swooping in close, holding out the hat, and then dashing away as she reached for it.
And then she reached too far, and slammed down hard. She lay on the ice silent and unmoving.
“Emma?”
Nothing. He rushed over to her, knelt at her side. What if he had hurt her? What if he had pushed her too hard? She was brand new to this, and if she was hurt badly there was no place to take her.
They weren’t wearing helmets. And she wasn’t tough. Her skull could be cracked open. She could be dying. He, of all people, knew how it could be all over in a blink. How you could be laughing about a stuffed marlin or a snatched toque one minute, and the next minute life was changed forever. Over.
Cursing his own foolishness, not just for playing with her, but for letting himself care this much again, he leaned close to her, felt her breath warm on his cheek.
And knew, from the panic that hammered a tattoo at his heart he had come to care about her way, way too much. And he also knew he could not survive another loss. That was why he had built such strong walls around himself.
Because he knew. He could not survive if he lost one more person that he loved.
And, as he contemplated that, her eyes popped open and, with an evil laugh, she reached out and snatched her toque from his hand, slammed it back on her head, and managed to grab his before she clambered to her feet and skittered away, taking advantage of the fact he was completely stunned by the revelation he had just had.
He wanted to be angry at her for frightening him, and for the realization he had just had. But how could you be angry with her when the laughter lit her eyes like that, when her cheeks glowed pink?
“I’m laughing so hard I can barely skate,” she shouted at him.
Give yourself to it. One night. To carry these memories deep within you once it’s gone. “I hate to break it to you, but you could barely skate before.”
“Not true,” she said, spreading her arms wide and doing a particularly clumsy stumble down the ice. “Jamie Salé, move over.”
“Somehow, I don’t think Jamie has anything to worry about!”
He caught her with ease, tugged at her wrist, turning her around to face him on the ice.
Was it that momentary fear that she had been hurt that made him so aware of how he felt?
Not saying a word, for some things were without words, he let the laughter between them fade and the mood between them soften until it glowed as golden as the pond reflecting the firelight.
One night.
“Though if you want to be Jamie, you have to learn how to do this.”
And then, he laced one hand with hers and put the other on the small of her back, pulling her in close to him. He danced with her. He, a hockey player who had never danced on ice in his life, took to it as if he had been born for this moment.
To the music of the crackling bonfire, and blades scraping ice that had turned to liquid gold, he danced with her. Her initial uncertainty faded as she just let him take her, gave herself over to it, surrendered to his lead.
They covered every square inch of that pond, his eyes locked on hers, and hers on his.
And then it was over, the fire dying to embers, the chill of the night penetrating the sense of warmth and contentment they had just shared.
It was time to end it. Not just the dance, either.
He pulled her hard to him, kissed her forehead where her curls had popped out of her toque and whispered to her, “Thank you, Emma.”
She looked at him, stricken, and he knew she had heard not thank you, not heard thank you at all.
Emma had heard what he had really said. That all this was too scary for him. What he had really said was good-bye.
He could see that she wanted the road open tomorrow—indeed, her business needed the road open. And she wanted the road closed, this cozy world kept intact.
The magic had been building every day that road was closed, and it had culminated in this: for a few short days he had felt young again, carefree, as if the world held only good things.
For a while, here at the White Christmas Inn, Ryder had been free from that place of pain he had lived in. At first he’d been free for minutes, and then for whole hours at a time. Today, he had experienced a day that had been nearly perfect, from beginning until end.
Ever since Ryder had told Emma the source of his deepest pain, everything had felt different between them. He had revealed the brokenness of his soul to her. He had done so out of absolute necessity, and he had done so to back both of them off from the attraction they were feeling.
He was not available. As not available as a man who was married. In a way, he was married to his sorrow. It was his constant companion, particularly with all things Christmas reminding him, triggering memories and his overpowering sense of failure.
He had come a long way, but he did not feel he had come nearly far enough to accept what he saw in her eyes. She was falling in love with him.
He found himself looking at her now, on that skating rink with the firelight dying around them, the way an art lover would look at a painting. With a kind of tender appreciation for who she was and what she did.
When had he stopped hoping for, planning his escape? When had he started dreading the opening of the road, because he was committed to a decision he’d already made?
The decision never to love again.
And, despite that decision, and despite the fact this was good-bye—or maybe because of it—he could not stop himself from tasting her lips one last time, as if he could save something of her, hold it inside himself, a secret source of warmth when he returned to a world of coldness.
She tilted her head back, met him halfway, and his lips touched hers. He was not sure what kind of kiss he intended—sweet farewell, perhaps—but he did not have the kind of control to execute that kind of kiss.
From the instant of contact, when he tasted her hunger, felt the passion that lurked just below her calm surface, something in him unleashed. The part of him that wanted things he could not have rose up to greet
