Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I frowned. “Did you hear me?”
“I did. Some douche wants to use me to throw you off your game, and you were about to let him. Tsk tsk, Johannsen. You should know better than that,” Gus scolded, motioning for me to wash my hands. “I’ll put some flour on the cutting board, and you can knead the dough.”
“He was vaguely threatening,” I argued a few minutes later, up to my elbows in flour. “People are nuts these days and…I had to tell you.”
“Thanks, but I’m out. People know I’m bi, Rafey. Coach Beekman knows, my teammates know, my teachers know, my parents even know. Fucking Eli knows. I’ve never had a boyfriend, so maybe it hasn’t been news, but it’s not a secret.”
“But they think you’re with me.”
“I am with you.”
“Yes, but…no. And I don’t want to put you in a bad position. To be clear, I know where we stand, and I’m all too aware that time is ticking. We won’t be roommates forever and this—whatever we are—will be—oh! I think the dough is ready.”
I lowered my head and stepped to the sink. I wanted to be cool about this, willing myself to hold it together as I reached for a paper towel to dry my hands.
Gus snaked his arms around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder. I was relying on him to get us back to neutral. And he did…in Gus-like fashion. No maudlin nostalgic musings or unrealistic promises to be something impossible.
Just…
“I love it when I make dinner, and you get to clean up.”
I took the lifeline and laughed. “Why should I clean up? This isn’t my mess.”
“But you’re partaking of this amazing meal and fair’s fair, baby.”
“Do I get co-author credit?”
“Co-author? For rolling dough? That’s some new kind of bull-honky,” he huffed, smacking my ass.
“Bull-honky?”
“Poppycock, horsefeathers, hogwash…I could keep going,” he warned.
“Please do.”
I didn’t bother hiding my grin as he chattered on. Or the tears I were sure made my eyes too shiny. Gus wouldn’t judge me.
“Weird request. Are you ready for it?” he asked, bumping my hip.
“Mmm. Sure.”
“I want to see you skate in that blue costume. Just once…”
I met his earnest gaze and traced a thumb over his bottom lip. “Okay.”
Gus smiled, and pulled me onto his chest. I listened to the night settle around us in the kitchen. My heart felt too big, as if it had expanded in my body and crowded my lungs, blocking precious airwaves.
All I could think was…
He feels like home.
I want to be home.
The revelation wasn’t sudden or surprising. It had been coming on for weeks now in the form of longing looks, gentle hands, coffee in my favorite mug, a home-cooked meal, and a simple, “How was your day?” The little things that meant more than I’d ever imagined they could.
This fragile, clawing, consuming sweetness wasn’t for the soft-hearted. Especially knowing I couldn’t keep it.
CHAPTER 21
GUS
Rafe was a beautiful skater.
Obviously, I’d known that already. I’d watched him practice, I’d seen the jumps, twists, and turns with fancy names I never got straight. I mean…what the hell was a Lutz?
But I’d never seen Rafe perform in costume with music he’d chosen. It was…unforgettable.
We had a fifteen-minute window before training began. Lights were dimmed, and my only job was to push Play on Rafe’s cell and attach it to the portable speaker I’d brought from home. He skated quickly to center ice, struck a pose, hands on his hips, gave a brusque nod, and closed his eyes.
I recognized the song immediately…something older from Coldplay with an ethereal vibe. “Fix You,” I think. It was pretty.
We’d had long conversations about the importance of choosing the right tune to set a mood. He liked classical music—Verdi and Vivaldi were favorites. I couldn’t tell them apart, to be honest. That usually led to a minor lecture on the structure and arc classical composers embodied in their work. According to Rafe, the best contemporary music was selected for emotional impact and power that would hopefully be reflected in the performance.
Rafe raised his hands, opened his eyes, and began to move.
His arms spread wide, he tore across the ice, nearly tipping backward like a bird stretching its wings before soaring into the night sky. And that was exactly what he reminded me of in his dark trousers and the nearly sheer top that shimmered and glittered like falling stars.
Rafe gained speed and jumped, and for a heart-stopping moment, he hung in the air…then began to spin. He landed seamlessly, smiling as he took off again.
I clapped like a maniac, mesmerized by his strength and beauty and raw talent. Christ, figure skating was like…athletic art.
His friend Celine had told me in passing that Rafe was a gifted choreographer with a reputation for incorporating a whimsical signature to required elements.
“If he’s in the zone, he’s unbeatable,” she’d said. “Did he tell you that he was hand-picked by the coach at Dartmouth? I’m sure he didn’t. Rafe doesn’t brag much, and he should. That was a big deal. He’s won some impressive awards. People know who he is, and I don’t think he realizes it. My boy is the real thing.”