“I thought it would be awkward, so I made sure we wouldn’t,” she says, looking away quickly, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. “But now that I’m here, it would be nice if we could at least pretend we’re friends.”
“You want to be friends?” I ask incredulously.What a joke.We can’t even skate together without bickering.
She winces. “Then maybe just a truce? We could set some rules to help us get along while I’m here. You won’t even notice I’m around.”
“Not notice?” I scoff. “That’s impossible.” Even when I’m trying to ignore her, she’s taking up space in my mind. The feel of her skin on mine. The way she fits into my arms. I’ve done everything I can to forget those things.
She glances up at me in surprise. “You notice?”
“Of course, I do,” I say, my voice low. Her eyes widen, and I look away before she realizes what that tiny sliver of hope does to me. “A truce is all I can offer. Friendship is off the table. Might as well make that clear now.” I cross my arms and see the light dim in her eyes. “But I could pretend to be your friend as long as you stop bossing me around.”
“Fair enough. But it’s not nearly as fun as annoying you.” A smile tugs at her lips.
“One question before I agree,” I say, hesitating for a beat. “How do you feel about Rourke?”
She looks over her shoulder as she hangs a blouse in the closet. “Why do you want to know?”
“So I won’t be tempted to punch him if he bothers you,” I admit.
She smooths the wrinkles from the blouse. “He’s not bothering me.” Then she turns around. “But in case you’re wondering, I’m not interested in Rourke.”
I keep my face guarded, but inside I’m secretly celebrating. “Good to know,” I finally say. “But that doesn’t solve the problem of you living here. I think we need to create some rules. Something to make sure that we don’t cross any lines...”
Her brow creases slightly. “Something that could jeopardize our skating partnership?”
I nod. “Anything that could make it hard—for either one of us.” If I’m going to live and work with her, boundary lines are essential. A truce doesn’t make us friends. But if I’m not careful, those guardrails might just turn into invitations, and I’ll lose every bit of control I’m trying to hang on to.
“What kind of rules?” She moves toward me while I keep my distance in her doorway.
“You’re not allowed in my bedroom,” I say. “It’s my personal space. Got it?”
“Okay,” she says, stopping next to her bed. “I won’t come in unless I’m invited.”
“You won’t be invited,” I shoot back, making it clear how it’s to be between us. “I think it’s best that way.”
“Me too,” she says, then glances at my feet. “Which means your toes are over the line.”
I sigh and back up a step.
She crosses her arms, pleased with herself for catching me breaking rule number one. “Any more rules?”
“We can’t be alone in the house together.”
“Because you don’t trust me?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Does it matter why?” I don’t want to answer that question because I already know the answer: I don’t trust myself. “Next rule—you can’t walk around here in pajamas.”
“So you’d rather I wear a suit of armor?” she asks dryly.
“It would be preferable,” I answer.
“Okay, but define pajamas?”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Pajamas isn’t a sufficient answer?”
She shakes her head.
“None of those little tank tops-and-shorts sets.”
