she’d seen the Christmas lights at Covent Garden. And he envied her that ability to see the wonder in things. He’d never felt that joy as a child; he’d always been too conscious of who he was. The boy who’d been dumped on his aunt and uncle because his mother had been off chasing her dreams and nobody had a clue who his father was. He’d always been so conscious of the need to be visibly grateful for their charity—and to work hard so that he could escape from it—that he hadn’t had time to stop and see things.
He shook himself. Enough of the pity party. The past was the past and he couldn’t change it. But what he could do was make sure that he didn’t put himself in a position where he felt at a disadvantage.
So why had he agreed to go ice-skating, as a novice, with someone who clearly excelled at it?
Idiot
, he castigated himself.
‘Stop frowning, Quinn,’ she said softly. ‘We’re meant to be having fun.’
Fun.
Yeah.
Right
.
She took his hand. ‘If you can ski, that means you have good balance and your core’s strong. So come on. You can do this. Just put one foot in front of the other and glide.’
Glide. ‘Uh-huh.’ He tried a couple of staccato strokes and simply succeeded in sending up a spray of ice shards.
‘Let yourself go,’ she said softly.
That was definitely something he couldn’t do. He’d had too many years of total self-discipline. From not letting himself cry in his childhood, through to not letting anyone stomp on his heart as an adult, after Tabitha.
Doggedly, he continued the staccato strokes and made a total hash of gliding over the ice.
‘Lean on me,’ she said, and slipped her arm round his waist.
Oh, help.
Now he was really aware of Carissa’s scent. Something floral, overlaid with vanilla and underlaid with something that smelled like fresh linen.
Somehow, his arm ended up round her shoulders.
And somehow he wasn’t making those staccato little strokes any more. With her by his side, holding him close, he was gliding. Almost like floating on air. And it felt amazing. He wasn’t sure if he felt more like Peter Pan, or like Jack in
Titanic
while he stood on the bow of the ship with Rose, encouraging her to feel that she was flying—a scene he’d sneered at when he’d been forced to watch the movie with a girlfriend, but now he was seeing it in a completely different light. The only time he’d felt like this before had been when he’d learned to ski and he’d braved the ski jump for the first time—the incredible feeling of weightlessness and the rush of the air round him.
Something clicked. The gliding motion of the skates, the sparkle of the lights, the scent of hot chocolate and pretzels, the sound of sleigh-bells in a jolly Christmas song, the warmth of Carissa’s arm round his waist... This was perfect.
And Quinn was shocked to realise just how much he was enjoying himself.
Carissa had clearly guessed, because she asked softly, ‘So do you admit that it’s magical?’
‘Yes, this is fabulous—but it has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.’
She coughed. ‘That’s a massive Christmas tree in front of the rink, unless I’m very much mistaken and it’s really an inflatable penguin.’
Quinn just about suppressed a grin. He liked her style of sarcasm. ‘But it doesn’t have to be Christmas for there to be an ice rink,’ he countered.
‘Stop being so stubborn and just admit it,’ she said, drawing him to a halt and spinning round in front of him so she could look into his face.
Carissa’s blue eyes were huge. Her mouth was perfect. And Quinn really, really wanted to kiss her. So much that he couldn’t stop himself dipping his head to brush his mouth against hers.
And it felt as if he’d just died and gone to heaven. Part of him groaned at the cliché, but most of him knew the truth of it. He’d wanted to kiss Carissa Wylde almost since the first day he’d met her.
‘OK. I admit it,’ he said softly. ‘This is
He shook himself. Enough of the pity party. The past was the past and he couldn’t change it. But what he could do was make sure that he didn’t put himself in a position where he felt at a disadvantage.
So why had he agreed to go ice-skating, as a novice, with someone who clearly excelled at it?
Idiot
, he castigated himself.
‘Stop frowning, Quinn,’ she said softly. ‘We’re meant to be having fun.’
Fun.
Yeah.
Right
.
She took his hand. ‘If you can ski, that means you have good balance and your core’s strong. So come on. You can do this. Just put one foot in front of the other and glide.’
Glide. ‘Uh-huh.’ He tried a couple of staccato strokes and simply succeeded in sending up a spray of ice shards.
‘Let yourself go,’ she said softly.
That was definitely something he couldn’t do. He’d had too many years of total self-discipline. From not letting himself cry in his childhood, through to not letting anyone stomp on his heart as an adult, after Tabitha.
Doggedly, he continued the staccato strokes and made a total hash of gliding over the ice.
‘Lean on me,’ she said, and slipped her arm round his waist.
Oh, help.
Now he was really aware of Carissa’s scent. Something floral, overlaid with vanilla and underlaid with something that smelled like fresh linen.
Somehow, his arm ended up round her shoulders.
And somehow he wasn’t making those staccato little strokes any more. With her by his side, holding him close, he was gliding. Almost like floating on air. And it felt amazing. He wasn’t sure if he felt more like Peter Pan, or like Jack in
Titanic
while he stood on the bow of the ship with Rose, encouraging her to feel that she was flying—a scene he’d sneered at when he’d been forced to watch the movie with a girlfriend, but now he was seeing it in a completely different light. The only time he’d felt like this before had been when he’d learned to ski and he’d braved the ski jump for the first time—the incredible feeling of weightlessness and the rush of the air round him.
Something clicked. The gliding motion of the skates, the sparkle of the lights, the scent of hot chocolate and pretzels, the sound of sleigh-bells in a jolly Christmas song, the warmth of Carissa’s arm round his waist... This was perfect.
And Quinn was shocked to realise just how much he was enjoying himself.
Carissa had clearly guessed, because she asked softly, ‘So do you admit that it’s magical?’
‘Yes, this is fabulous—but it has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.’
She coughed. ‘That’s a massive Christmas tree in front of the rink, unless I’m very much mistaken and it’s really an inflatable penguin.’
Quinn just about suppressed a grin. He liked her style of sarcasm. ‘But it doesn’t have to be Christmas for there to be an ice rink,’ he countered.
‘Stop being so stubborn and just admit it,’ she said, drawing him to a halt and spinning round in front of him so she could look into his face.
Carissa’s blue eyes were huge. Her mouth was perfect. And Quinn really, really wanted to kiss her. So much that he couldn’t stop himself dipping his head to brush his mouth against hers.
And it felt as if he’d just died and gone to heaven. Part of him groaned at the cliché, but most of him knew the truth of it. He’d wanted to kiss Carissa Wylde almost since the first day he’d met her.
‘OK. I admit it,’ he said softly. ‘This is
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