“You can’t skate with these,” he chuckles. “But…I’ll put them with your things. You can have them back the second we get home.”

Home.

How strange that he feels like home. And yet, how very not strange at all.

“Okay,” I say again. I’m unable to do anything but agree with him. It’s not that I owe him. It’s that I want to go along with him. I meant what I said last night—I trust Andrew Harper…with my life.

I let him guide me back outside after he deposits my things in his room, and when he opens the door of his car for me, I force myself to keep my thoughts ahead—to focus on the future and possibilities rather than the past. Andrew’s careful with me, taking my hand as I sit in the low bucket seat. He leans forward through the door as I buckle the belt, his head cocked to one side, silently asking me if I’m all right—the last ride in this car flooded me with painful memories.

I smile at him when my belt clicks, and his eyes skim down my body, down my legs, then back to my lips, and they quiver under the heat of his stare. Nothing about the way he’s looking at me feels threatening or possessive; it’s adoring, and it makes my palms sweat. Adored is exactly how I always wanted to feel, and I haven’t felt it since he left my life five years ago.

He exhales slowly, backing away from the door and nudging it closed with the tips of his fingers, bringing both of his hands up to his mouth and closing his eyes as he continues to back away, shaking his head and smirking underneath it all.

When he gets into his seat, sliding in, buckling, and starting the engine, I question the soft chuckle and grin he’s still wearing. He looks into his rearview mirror, almost like he’s working extra hard not to look at me again. The tension causes my heart to speed up.

“What is it? Come on, Andrew…don’t tease,” I say.

His eyes shut; he laughs once again, his head falling forward, then his eyes open as he leans to the side, resting his head on his steering wheel.

“You have no idea how you bewitch me, Emma Burke,” he says, his teeth dragging his bottom lip, his tongue caught in their snare next. “No idea.”

His eyes wander around my face, and in that instant I see it—Andrew Harper is worshiping me. My heart drums louder, and I tuck my hands underneath my legs, holding my own breath.

The trip to the rink is short, and we spend those few minutes both blushing and taking small peeks at each other, like grade-schoolers who’ve passed notes back and forth and have just gotten thrown together in some playground tunnel. I don’t know what to do or how to act—only that I know I want to leap onto his lap right now and never let go.

I stay put, and wait for Andrew to round the car to open my door for me on his insistence that I let him play gentleman for the night. He walks me up to the back door of the rink, and hands a guy a fifty-dollar bill before we slip inside. I wince at the amount of money, knowing how he earns it, and how little he has to throw away. But the slight smile he gives me keeps me from protesting. He’s proud of this date—and I am going to love every second of it.

“Are we supposed to be here?” I ask, noticing most of the lights are off, minus three or four shining on the center of the ice.

“Define…supposed to,” Andrew says, rolling his neck and grimacing at me.

I stop and watch him take a few steps in front of me, his body older, his legs longer, his look so very much the Prince Charming I’ve cast in my dreams. He was the original—the only.

“I don’t think I should define it. I have a feeling the answer’s no either way, so I’m just gonna go with the flow,” I say, a little nervous that we’re breaking a rule—a little excited by it, too.

“Probably for the best,” he winks.

We slip through a small opening in the bleachers, and Andrew reaches for my hand, linking a few of his fingers with mine to guide me to my seat. When he stops, he doesn’t let go of his slight hold, but turns to the side, his chin toward me and his breath tickling against my neck.

“Do you…” He stops, swallowing hard. “Do you need help with your skates?” I get the immediate sense that’s not what he really wanted to ask. I know it’s not what I wanted him to say.

I shake my head in tepid movements and take my skates from his other hand and sit to lace them. Andrew sits across from me, and when his skates are done, he slides his toe forward, knocking his blade into mine. We both look at it, then gaze up at each other, instantly breaking into laughter.

“I think you have a foot fetish,” I tease as he reaches a hand out and helps me to stand.