Love on ice

Chapter 10: forces proximity

Anya's POV

Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to my kneecaps.

My alarm blared at 7:03 AM three minutes late because even my phone seemed to understand this day deserved sabotage. Through the c***k in my curtains, Minnesota sunlight stabbed my retinas like a personal insult.

Non. Нет. No.

I burrowed deeper under the covers. The universe owed me at least one act of mercy perhaps a sudden blizzard, or Jace Wilder contracting laryngitis. But when I cracked one eye open, the sky remained cruelly clear.

Thirty-seven minutes later, Nikolai kicked my door open with his hockey bag slung over his shoulder. "Ты выглядишь как смерть." You look like death.

I hurled a pillow at his smirking face. "I'm clinically deceased. Tell Lillian."

"Too late." He tossed a travel mug onto my nightstand the bitter espresso smell confirmed he'd bribed Lillian into making my favorite.

"Lillian has gone to work and Dad dropped her off while on his way out and I am heading out right now". He said.

"Oh and Jace texted twice already. He says don't be late."

My stomach growled traitorously. "I'd rather eat his hockey tape."

Nikolai leaned against the doorframe, oozing older-brother smugness. "You're scared."

I sat up so fast my vision spotted. "Of what? His atrocious pronunciation? The way he chews gum like a cow with sinusitis?"

"That you'll like him." He ducked the second pillow with infuriating ease. "Bus leaves in twenty. Wear the red sweater it makes you look less murdery."

The door slammed shut behind him.

I shuffled to my closet, yanking it open with more force than necessary. Inside, it was a graveyard of leotards, leggings, and competition gear remnants of a life that felt both too close and too far away. But today wasn't about the ice. Today required something casual.

A concept I still didn't fully understand.

I scanned my options with narrowed eyes:

Black turtleneck: Too dramatic (like auditioning for a tragic Russian ballet heroine).

Oversized sweatshirt:Too lazy (might imply I didn't care, which I didn't, but he didn't need to know that).

Red sweater Nikolai mentioned: Absolutely not (no brother-approved outfits).

I exhaled sharply through my nose and settled on a fitted white tee and dark jeans neutral, unremarkable, not trying.

Perfect.

My reflection showed messy layers from last week's haircut sticking out at odd angles. I scowled, grabbing a brush.

Ponytail? Too severe.

Down? Too effortful.

Braid? Not a period drama heroine.

I twisted it into a messy half-up style, securing it with a clip. Good enough.

The kitchen was empty when I finally made it downstairs, remnants of Nikolai's breakfast scattered across the counter. A note from Lillian was stuck to the fridge:

"Grocery run after work. Eat something. Lillian" .

I rolled my eyes and grabbed an apple, biting into it with more aggression than necessary. The tartness burst across my tongue, sharp and grounding.

Minnesota mornings were obnoxiously cheerful.

Birds sang. Neighbors waved. I cranked Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

The bus smelled like diesel and adolescent regret.

The Wilder House

Jace's home loomed ahead, all perfect hedges and smug colonial symmetry. I hesitated at the doorstep.

Why am I nervous?

Because he'd see right through me. Again.

I knocked.

The door swung open.

Jace leaned against the frame, shirtless, sweat glistening on his stupid abs. A hockey stick rested on his shoulder like a caveman's club.

"Took you long enough, Princess."

I shoved past him. "Put on a shirt."

He smirked. "Make me."The Wilder house was too quiet no Mrs. Wilder humming, no Mr. Wilder's booming laugh. Just the hollow echo of my knock before Jace swung it open.

"Where are your parents?" I asked, stepping inside.

Jace shrugged, heading toward the kitchen. "Business trip. Tokyo, I think."

"You think?"

"Twice-a-year thing."His voice was casual, but his grip on the coffee mug tightened. "Back Friday."

I eyed the pristine kitchen no breakfast dishes, no newspaper, just a single bowl in the sink. "So you're just... alone?"

"Unless you count the ghosts of my childhood loneliness, the maids, gardener and the housekeeper,"he deadpanned, pouring me coffee without asking how I took it. He got it right black, one sugar.

I raised an eyebrow. "That's depressing."

"Tell me about it." He slid the mug across the counter. "You're late, by the way."

"I contemplated throwing myself in front of a bus."

Jace smirked. "Would've been a waste of good tragedy."

We made it exactly seven minutes into verb conjugations before the bickering started.

Jace tapped the textbook. "'Je suis, tu es, il est' this is basic, Anya."

I kicked him under the table. "I know present tense. I need subjunctive."

"Why? So you can say, 'I wish Jace would shut the hell up'?"

"Exactement."

He leaned back, arms crossed. Morning light caught the gold flecks in his stupid hazel eyes. "Fine. 'Il faut que tu m'embrasses."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "What?"

"Subjunctive." His grin was all teeth. " It's necessary that you kiss me.' Useful phrase, no?"

I threw my pen at his head.

By noon, we'd "studied" exactly three verbs and demolished a plate of toast. Jace moved around the kitchen like he'd done this a thousand times because he had. Alone.

I watched him scrub the pan a little too aggressively. "How old were you? The first time they left you like this."

His shoulders stiffened. "Nine."

Nine. A child making his own meals, staring at too-big chairs where parents should've been.

I stood abruptly, snatching the sponge from his hands. "Arrête. You're massacring the non-stick coating."

Jace didn't let go. Our fingers tangled under the running water. "Why do you care?"

"Because this pan is clearly expensive," I lied.

He huffed a laugh, stepping closer. The faucet was still running. The house was still empty. And for once, neither of us had a sarcastic remark ready.

I should've mocked him. Should've shoved him. Instead, I tilted my head just enough letting his lips graze my ear.

Then

Thud.

My elbow connected with his stomach, shoving him back.

Jace just laughed, that infuriating, rich sound bouncing off the kitchen tiles. "Knew you'd do that."

I wiped my hands on a towel, ignoring the heat in my cheeks. "Then you're smarter than you look."

He grinned. "Keep telling yourself that, Princess."