Semua Bab Dancing On Ice: One-Night Stand With The Hockey Captain: Bab 51 - Bab 60

Anne-Marie’s P.O.VIn my right hand, I slowly turn a high-tech, encrypted security card with Marcus’ face on it, my head buzzing softly as I take my time and stroll back to where Kaizer’s car is parked in the hospital garage. My eyes fall to the card. Just his name—Marcus D. M., his photo, and a barcode. No company name for security reasons.Sighing deeply, I halt in my tracks and unlock my phone, my thumb already hovering over the dial button. I try to talk myself out of it, but if the cases were reversed and he hadn’t heard from me in days, I know he’ll show up outside my apartment building or call. I don’t know where he lives; I wouldn’t even go there if I knew. But I can call. And that’s exactly what I do. I put the phone to my ear and take a deep breath, waiting.How can he forget a corporate badge this important? Mr. Dawson had something like this when I worked at the logistics company. He’d let me have it whenever he wanted me to run errands for him in places that were restrict

Anne-Marie’s P.O.VHorrified, I whip around, scanning the street for anyone I know, like Diana, returning home with my baby. There’s no one coming.My heart is pounding hard in fear. A sickening twist settles in my stomach. I slap my hand over my mouth, throw my gaze up at the old woman still smiling at me, then fix my gaze back on that darned black van, desperately wishing it were a ghost I saw. I bite down on my lower lip, trembling, hoping, yet waiting for him to show himself as my eyes water. I count seconds in my head.Nothing. So I turn around and walk hastily. My shaky hand goes to my back pocket.“Anne-Marie?” “Oh, God!” I gasp, finally managing to pull my phone out. I fumble to unlock it while walking so fast in the opposite direction of my apartment building. It unlocks, and I tap the phone icon. “I’m calling 9-1-1, you fu–ing stalker.”“What? Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” He raps with desperation. I hear him running behind me. My heart lurches out of my throat. Panic de

Memphis’s P.O.V‘Don’t talk to me.’ That’s all that cycles through my mind as I stare at my partner, whose palms are still plastered to her face. My heart thuds rapidly in my chest, leaving me wondering whether it’s Miss Blake’s wrath I’m more concerned about or Anne-Marie’s rage. Something tells me it’s the latter.Her body rises and falls in a rhythm that looks nothing like calm. It’s unsettling.Now I’m certain about what makes her tick: having to talk to me. But worry latches onto me the longer I watch her remain like that. The ticking clock is the least of my problems at this moment.I play with her name in my head, wanting so badly to call her, go to her, check on her, ask if she’s fine. Yet, I cower at the thought of facing another outburst from her.Her hands slide down her face. She turns slightly, the hood of her sweater covering her so that I don’t see her face. Her right hand tightens into a fist before it goes to her face. Something hurtful cinches my chest. I can see m

Anne-Marie’s P.O.VMarcus lowers his phone, and the call drops on my end.I stand glued to the ground, my eyes fixed on him, tears still leaking out as my head continues to whir. My heart beats rapidly; I don’t know if it’s in alarm or from relief.I’ve spent the entire week worrying about his well-being, and worrying if all my baggage and burdens finally pushed him away. Wondering if he got tired of waiting for an emotionally closed-off girl to reciprocate what he felt; wondering if I was ungrateful for all the kindness he’s shown me for acting indifferent to him simply because he kissed me in my weakest moment. But I’ve also been thinking about the kiss, wondering if he’ll remember how it made him feel and make him come back, even though I felt close to nothing. The streetlamp is right above him, casting a warm glow on his lovely face, letting me see that his brows are raised in question. He’s waiting. He’s been waiting. I wonder for how long.“What’s wrong?” he yells.But my feet

Anne-Marie’s P.O.VI sit in the silence of Marcus’ car, depleted from crying so hard for too long. My eyes are closed. My head rests against the headrest, turned to the other side. He’s right beside me in the driver’s seat. I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, but my mind is foggy, and I’m choosing not to think about anything.His car smells really good; he smells even better, making his presence hard to ignore. I’m just grateful he hasn’t said anything since he led me into his car after that embarrassing episode. The last time I cried like that was the night I lost Mary and my Mom. “My mom was a workaholic.” Marcus’ voice cracks, breaking the perfect stillness.I lift my eyelids; they’re heavy from all the crying. And slowly, I turn to him. His head is tipped back against the headrest, his jaw taut, his eyes fixed ahead.He scoffs a laugh that almost sounds melancholic. “She– She spent most of her time working… My dad loved that about her. He told me after she’d passed awa