Crashed by Elise Faber

Chapter Eight

Brandon

He pulledup to Fanny’s house, still intending to just drive by.

Or maybe to pause at the curb and try to figure out how to make things right between them.

Or maybe to park next to her car and pretend he had a right to be there.

Or maybe—

To see Fanny run right out the front door and hightail it for her car. She didn’t look around. She didn’t notice his car at the curb. She didn’t seem to notice anything as she all but ran down the walkway and tossed a bag into her passenger’s seat and tore off out of the driveway.

As though the hounds of hell were chasing her.

It wasn’t even a decision to follow her.

She drove away, and he immediately trailed her, his mind spinning, worry swirling through him. What had happened? Was she okay? Hurt?

His jaw was tight, fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

He was going to find out.

Her car hovered above the speed limit on the freeway for the couple of exits they were on it then did the same as she drove through the quiet streets, as she whipped into a familiar parking lot.

She stopped by the curb, and he watched as she got out, bag in hand, and unlocked the glass and steel doors, disappearing inside the darkened ice rink. Her skates must be in that bag, he knew now. Just as Brandon understood why she’d run out of her house, why she’d come here.

Fanny needed to out-skate her demons.

Which meant he should leave.

He knew he was going to stay anyway.

He parked behind her car, promising that he’d wait out here until she was done, would make sure she made it home safe.

He made it all of ten minutes before he got out of his car.

Fanny hadn’t locked the door behind her.

He quietly slipped inside, making sure the glass and metal panel shut behind him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lobby.

There were a few lights on in the rinks beyond—four in total—but he moved straight ahead, going to the sheet of ice he’d seen Fanny on both times he’d been here before. There was barely enough illumination to see the edges of the ice, the plastic boards surrounding it, topped by clear plexiglass.

And there certainly wasn’t enough light to expose him where he stood just inside the second set of doors, shadows clinging to the walls, the bleachers filling up one side of the space.

But apparently, it was enough for Fanny to see, to do what she needed to do.

Her bag sat on the floor, open in front of that lowest bench of the bleachers, almost spotlit beneath one of the few lights that were on.

But that only drew his focus for a couple of seconds.

Because his eyes . . . they were drawn to the ice. To Fanny on the ice.

God, she still moved like a river, liquid and smooth and persistent. No barrier would stop her, but it wasn’t brutal like a tidal wave, like the ocean swallowing up the coastline. She was the narrow stretch of a creek, flowing through rocks and trees, along the riverbed. Graceful and effortless and absolutely stunning.

There wasn’t any music blaring over the speakers. There weren’t any fans in the stands.

It was just her and the music in her heart, the joy in her soul.

He stood there, riveted in place, the only sound in the large space the crunch of her skate blades against the ice. She owned the rink, using every inch as she moved through a stretch of footwork he remembered her taking months to master. Only it was different at the end, as though she’d added to it and increased the difficulty of the movements. Then she picked up speed, skating around the edges, lining up for a takeoff. There was one less rotation than he’d seen the last time she’d performed, but the double axel was still impressive, as was the Lutz she entered into barely a heartbeat later.

But she didn’t stop there.

She continued moving, flowing, and it was as though a decade had never passed.

She jumped again and again. Her skate blades glinted in the dim light.

Her chest heaved, and her hair was plastered to her forehead.

And then . . .

She stopped, her gaze arrowing toward him.