Page 250 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
He knew that, I knew that.
It was the only reason he’d agreed to come to the ice rink as our first Friday date night—considering the fact we were about to be walking around on “knife shoes”—his words, not mine. He trusted me. And fuck, that was the greatest gift of all.
Once he was all trussed up, I got to work on my own skates. I’d been worried they’d stink, and had pretty much soaked the insides with a can of Lysol in preparation. Which meant they smelled like fucking daisies as I slid my feet inside and laced up far quicker than I’d worked on George’s.
Muscle memory.
“Okay.” On my feet, I held a hand out for him. “You remember what I taught you?”
“Fall to your side,” George rolled his eyes but recited dutifully. “Bend your knees.”
“Right.”
“If I feel like I’m going to fall, bend more and put my hands on my knees.”
“That’s perfect, Duchess.”
George smiled, this soft tentative thing. Pleased that I was pleased with him, no doubt.
“Slow and steady, baby. We got this.”
“You got this,” George huffed. “Me, I’m not so sure about.”
He was worried for no reason.
An hour later, he was gliding around all on his own. Okay, maybe calling it “gliding” was a stretch. But he was definitely moving.
“Look at you go, you precious little cutie pie,” I purred from in front of him, watching him wiggle forward with a pinched brow, his lips pressed into a determined line.
“Stop flirting with me, I’m trying to concentrate.”
He was so full of shit. We both knew he loved when I flirted with him.
“Bend your knees more,” I encouraged. He bent, and I cheered. “Better.”
“It’s so…slippery,” George complained, breathing through his nose as he focused on getting his feet to move.
“That would be because it’s ice,” I teased.
“Shut up.”
He was moving faster now. More confident. Way better than I’d done my first day on the ice when I’d been a kid.
“Alright, now glide,” I coached. “You got moving, now keep your feet shoulder-width apart and glide—” And he did it. He fucking— “Fuck yes! You’re doing it! Yes, yes, yes!”
George was beaming, this wide bright smile—the smile he reserved for me and Mr. Pickles, and no one else. “I’m doing it!” he said, still sliding on the ice. It was a snail’s crawl but it was enough.
“Again! Push your sexy lil feet and then gli—there you go.”
“I’m a fucking pro,” George said, gliding along. “Look at me!”
“Iamlooking!”
“I’m so—” And then he fell.
He hit the ice on his side like I’d told him to do, sliding for a few feet as his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what was about to happen. Worried his fear of appearing less than perfect would rise to the surface—that our night would be ruined right as it had begun. Even more, I worried that he’d be distressed. That falling would crush his already brittle ego to dust.
I skated close, terrified he was about to give up, or cry—or that he’d been hurt for real.
