Thin Ice
There are several things I'm good at avoiding. Sticking to the shadows, minding my own business, and pretending the world isn’t completely catered to self-serving rich maniacs whose deep pockets and influence can cover up literally anything. I’ve built my entire survival strategy on just that. Flying under the radar.
There’s just one thing that’s been getting in the way. Something that’s caused an interruption, forcing me into the light I spent so many years avoiding.
His name is Asher Thorne.
And if you thought this was a cute love story, I'd probably walk away now.
. . .
"Evangeline, you're daydreaming," the athletic director barked, tapping a pen against his clipboard. "You're lucky the rink manager called out with the flu and didn't witness this. Now what are you waiting for? If you want to keep this job, go scrub down the penalty box before the varsity hockey team takes the ice."
"Right away, sir," I muttered under my breath, hoisting an industrial mop over my shoulder. "Nothing I love more than the crisp morning aroma of commercial bleach."
"What was that?"
"I said I'm just so grateful you took a chance on me, sir!"
One fade to black later, Crestwood University’s underground rink was looking shiny and new.
To be clear, I don't want this job. I need it. I need it to prove that I can take care of myself. My mom might be willing to take hush money, but accepting a single cent from my new stepfather, the corrupt, terrifying mafia lord, is the last thing I'll ever do.
The only thing worse would be if...
The double doors swung wide, cutting through the silence as the Crestwood varsity hockey team filtered out onto the rink, moving with effortless dominance.
They were five minutes early, which meant their fearless captain was about to be very angry with me.
Six-foot-four of lethal, heavy muscle encased in a cold exterior. Inky dark hair arranged into that exact, irritating brand of deliberate messiness. A jawline carved by someone who clearly favored violence. And then there were his eyes: chilling, slate-gray ice, shadowed by thick lashes, contrasting sharply with the jagged scar cutting across his cheek.
Asher Thorne.
Star center of our hockey team. And, courtesy of my mother witnessing a brutal crime and being forced to marry Arthur Thorne to stay alive, he is also my brand-new stepbrother.
"Hey, Thorne," one of his line mates snickered, patting him on the back. "Looks like your weirdo stalker, I mean sister, followed you to practice again."
Asher didn't smile. He never smiled. He just locked those cold eyes straight onto me, taking his sweet time letting his gaze drift from my eyes down to the soles of my shoes before dragging it back up to my face. The sheer intensity of it sent an unwelcome rush of heat prickling down my spine, which only made me want to hit him with the mop handle. So I decided to do just that.
I swing the industrial mop, catching him square in the shoulder. Asher doesn't even flinch. His fingers grasp the heavy wooden handle, wrenching it from my grip and sending it clattering across the slick ice.
Before I can draw a breath, he shoves me flush against the Plexiglas, his free hand pinning my wrists above my head. His chest presses into mine, hot and heavy, obliterating the frigid chill of the arena.
He tilts my chin up, his dark eyes locked on my mouth. He leans in slow, close enough for me to feel the ragged heat of his breath against my lips, freezing in that suffocating space between us as if daring me to play along.
The suffocating scent of pure male ego hit my nose, and I realized my eyes were shut. When I opened them, I looked up to see that we weren't, in fact, about to kiss. I was daydreaming again, and he was just glaring down at me like he wanted to murder me.
"I thought we agreed you'd be off the ice before the team came out," Asher said, his voice low and rough.
"I'm so sorry I didn't clean fast enough for you, my lord," I mocked.
His expression turned dangerously dark as he tucked his chin into his chest, taking stern, measured strides toward me until he backed me up against the rigid Plexiglas wall.
"Now if you could please move out of my way, I'll take my leave," I retorted, lifting my chin to glare straight into his eyes, even as my pulse hammered violently. "Only because the clock just hit 7:59 A.M. and a deal is a deal. NOT because you scare me."
"Careful with that reckless mouth," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated straight through my ribs. He brought a heavy palm up, resting it flat against the glass right beside my head, trapping me completely.
His gaze dropped to my parted lips. He was only inches away, just like in my daydream.
Without thinking, my breath hitched...
A sharp, low chuckle broke the silence.
"Were you waiting for a kiss?" Asher mocked softly, an arrogant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He pushed off the glass, taking a step back and giving a mocking, dismissive flick of his hand toward the exit, gesturing for me to leave.
My face burned with a humiliating rush of heat. I gripped my mop, spun on my heel, and walked away as fast as my shoes would carry me. But as the rink doors shut behind me, an unsettling sensation crawled under my skin.
For a split second back there, before he laughed, it felt like he really was about to kiss me. And I wasn't entirely sure how to feel about the fact that I didn't try to stop him.
