Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Look up, Olly,” Emily calls out from up ahead, where she’s skating backward, just like that cheeky little toddler.
Making it look easy. Effortless. Graceful.
Meanwhile, I’m hunched over, death-gripping the barrier while a group of French teenage girls glide past, filming my wretched lurching with a mixture of giggles and insults.
“No, I do not have two left hands. That doesn’t even make sense,” I call after them in their mother tongue. “And I speak excellent French!”
They only laugh harder before skating away, one of them lobbing a final kill shot over her shoulder.
I growl and mutter, “Cruel. The French are a cruel people.”
Grinning, Emily asks, “What did she say? I thought I heard something about a cow?”
“She said I sound like a Spanish cow,” I explain, sucking in a sharp breath as my right foot nearly shoots out from under me again. I cling tighter to the barrier as I add, “Meaning my French accent is shite, I suppose. Or that I’m trying too hard. Maybe both. You can never tell with the French.”
“Well, the trying too hard part is accurate, anyway,” Emily murmurs gently. “All this tension is only making things harder, Olly. Can you try to relax your shoulders? Just a tiny bit? And bend your knees?”
“No, I can’t, Emily. I’ve clearly lost all management of my limbs,” I shoot back, only half joking. “I think that should be obvious by now.”
My legs truly seem to have forgotten that they’re attached to the same body, each one determined to strike out in different directions when I least expect it.
Emily emits a sympathetic hum that somehow makes me feel even more pathetic. “Okay. But you can at least stop looking at your feet, right?”
“But, if I don’t look at my feet, how will I know what fresh betrayal they’re planning?” I shuffle forward another few inches, arms windmilling wildly as my legs go rogue at the same time, once again.
“Here, let me help,” she says, reaching for my hand.
Despite myself, I cling to her like a lifeline, allowing her to pull me a few inches away from the edge. “No, I can’t. What if I fall and—”
“Oi, mister!” A small voice pipes up beside us. “My baby sister skates better than you!”
I look down to see Yellow Jumper circling me like a tiny shark, clearly intent on making mischief with my legs, once again.
“Good for her,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Does she give lessons?”
“She’s two,” the boy says, with a hard roll of his brown eyes. He circles again, making my jaw clench so tight, I’m about to crack a molar when he asks, “Are you drunk? Is that why you can’t stand up?”
“I’m not drunk, and I’m standing just fine,” I insist, immediately making a liar of myself by going down.
Hard.
The good news is that I manage to release Emily’s hand before I crash to the ice. The bad news is that my elbows crack into the rink with enough force to ensure I’ll have no trouble remembering to keep them off the table at Christmas dinner.
Hell, they might still be black and blue on New Year’s Day.
“Bollocks,” I curse, wincing as fresh waves of pain continue to course from my arms into my shoulders.
The boy cackles with glee. “Drunk and a mouth on ya. Wait ‘til I tell my mum. She said proper gentlemen don’t curse, but you sure do.”
“Listen here, little mister, I—” I start, but Emily cuts me off with a smooth, “Let me handle this, Olly.”
She crouches down to the boy’s level, still ridiculously graceful on her skates, making me feel even more like a Spanish cow with two left hands who will never find his way back to an upright position.
“What’s your name, buddy?” she asks sweetly.
“Nigel,” the boy says suspiciously.
“Well, Nigel, let me explain something.” She maintains her sweetness, but there’s a thread of steel beneath her words as she adds, “Some people are good at ice skating. Some people are good at being kind. Guess which one you need to work on?”
Nigel’s face goes red. “He looks stupid. Really stupid.”
“And you sound mean,” Emily counters. “Which do you think is worse? Looking silly while trying something new, or teasing someone who’s struggling?”
The boy opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then ends with a wrinkle of his pug nose and a sigh. “Okay, fine.” Glancing back at me, he adds, “Sorry, mister. You look like a right wanker, but I should have kept that to myself. Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Nigel,” I say, a bit of my hope for the next generation restored as he skates away.
Emily helps me to my feet and back to my emotional support barrier, while I fight a fresh wave of completely inappropriate affection.
But there’s nothing fake about the warmth in my voice, as I say, “Thank you, Ms. Darling. No one’s ever taken on a cheeky child for me before. I’m touched.”