Beneath the Blue Ice
Author
Donna Richards
Reads
2.1M
Chapters
44
1: Chapter 1
NATASHA
As I arrived at the house, my heart thumped in my chest. This was it—the place I'd be calling home for the next three years.
I scanned the front porch. No sign of Evie. She'd probably lost track of time—nothing new there.
I sighed and tried the front door. It was unlocked, so I let myself in, dragging my suitcase behind me down the hallway. The place was way cleaner than I expected—especially knowing Evie. Her room used to look like a tornado had hit it when we were kids.
I heard someone in the kitchen, so I headed that way, expecting Evie. But it wasn't Evie. It was him.
Layson. Shirtless, leaning against the counter, filling a glass of water from the tap. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and when he looked up and saw me, a cocky grin spread across his face.
"Blue?" He set the glass on the edge of the counter. "No way. Look at you, all grown up."
My heart did a full somersault. I opened my mouth to say something clever, but my suitcase had other plans.
The wheel caught on the lip of the kitchen tile, lurching the whole thing forward. It slammed into the open fridge door, which swung wide and knocked straight into Layson's arm. The glass went flying off the counter and hit his chest, sending water splashing down his bare torso and soaking into the waistband of his sweats.
He looked down at himself, then back at me.
"Well," he said, water dripping off his abs. "That's one way to say hello."
"Oh my God." I dropped the suitcase handle and lunged for the paper towel roll. "I'm so sorry—I didn't—the wheel got stuck—"
I ripped off a wad of paper towels and, without thinking, pressed them straight against his stomach. His skin was warm and hard under my palms, and my brain short-circuited about two seconds in.
He looked down at my hands, then back up at me, one eyebrow raised. That grin hadn't gone anywhere.
"You know, most people just wave."
I yanked my hands back like I'd touched a hot stove, my cheeks burning so hard I thought I might combust. "I was just—helping."
"Uh-huh." He took the crumpled paper towels from my fist, his fingers brushing mine, and tossed them on the counter. "Appreciate the hands-on welcome, Blue."
I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.
I'd met Layson when he and Evie moved to Boston seven years ago. He was two years older than me, already obsessed with hockey. They moved in next door, and Evie and I became inseparable—always at each other's houses, practically sisters.
The first time I met Layson, I had the most ridiculous crush. Full-on, heart-thumping, can't-breathe kind of crush. But of course, he only ever saw me as his little sister's friend.
Not that it mattered. Layson wasn't exactly boyfriend material. He was more of a casual hookup kind of guy. Even if he did look at me twice, I'd never let myself be just another girl he forgot about. No way. I had more self-respect than that.
He'd called me Blue since the day we met, and I never really knew why. I had a theory, though—it was easier for him to give girls nicknames than to remember all their names. There were a lot of girls, after all.
Layson moved to campus when he started college, but when Evie turned eighteen, their mom bought them this house so they could both be close to school. It was sweet, really—their mom wanted Evie taken care of, and Layson was always the protective big brother.
When Evie offered me her spare room, it was perfect. Close to campus, close to my mom. I never thought I'd end up back in Boston, but life has a way of flipping everything upside down.
Layson grabbed a shirt from the back of a kitchen chair and pulled it on, still looking way too amused. "Three years since I've seen you, and the first thing you do is assault me with a suitcase."
"It was an accident," I muttered, still not making eye contact.
"Sure it was." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying me in a way that made my skin prickle. "You look good, Blue."
Before I could think of a single response, the front door burst open.
"NATASHA!"
Evie came flying down the hallway and crashed into me with a hug so tight I could barely breathe.
"I missed you so much!" she squealed, bouncing on her toes. "I'm so sorry—I had to run to campus and totally lost track of time. How was the drive from New York?"
"It wasn't too bad," I said, hugging her back.
She pulled back, hands on my shoulders, her face going soft. "How's your mom?"
I took a deep breath. "She was okay when I saw her earlier. Some days are harder than others, but she's hanging in there."
Evie squeezed my hand. "Don't worry. My mom's been over there almost every day, keeping her company."
I smiled, feeling a little lighter.
Evie glanced at Layson and narrowed her eyes. "Did you at least offer to help with her stuff, or did you just stand there looking shirtless?"
"I helped," Layson said, holding up his hands. "She attacked me."
"I did not attack you," I said.
He winked at me. My stomach flipped.
Evie grabbed my arm. "Come on—let me show you your room before he gets worse."
She gave me the full tour—the living room with its gray couches and mounted TV, the bathroom, and finally, my room. Thank God she'd listened when I begged her not to paint it pink. She was obsessed with that color—her notebooks, her pens, even her socks. Instead, she'd picked this soft gray-violet. It was perfect. It felt like me.
Evie bounced on the bed. "I can't believe you're actually here."
I sat beside her and smiled. Neither could I.
Then her phone buzzed. She groaned. "Ugh—I told Professor Davies I'd grab my syllabus before five. I have to run." She hugged me one more time. "Unpack. Settle in. I'll be back in an hour."
The front door slammed, and the house went quiet.
I kicked off my shoes and started unpacking—hanging shirts, stacking notebooks on the desk, lining up my pens the way I liked them. I was reaching for the last box when a voice came from the doorway.
"Still attached to your pen and notepad, huh?"
I spun around. Layson was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with that lazy, knowing grin.
He used to make fun of me for always scribbling in my notebook. He'd joke that I'd end up with ink all over my hands and face.
"Well," I said, crossing my arms, "not everyone can be a star athlete."
He held up his hands in surrender. But then he pushed off the frame and stepped into the room, slow, deliberate, closing the distance between us until I could smell his cologne.
He reached up and brushed a few stray curls from my face, his fingers warm against my temple.
My breath caught.
His eyes locked on mine—dark brown, steady, way too close.
"I don't know, Blue…" His voice dropped low. "I bet you'd be amazing to watch on the ice."
His fingers lingered, tucking the hair behind my ear. I could feel my pulse everywhere—my wrists, my throat, the tips of my fingers.
Neither of us moved.
