His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 37: Olive's Pov

It didn't take long.

A sleek black matte car pulled up outside the café, and my stomach dropped so fast I thought I might be sick.

That car. I knew that car.

"Wasn't that the same car we—" I whispered to myself, the memory slamming into me. His hands on my thighs, my back against the leather, the way he'd—

My phone buzzed.

Zane: Don't even think about leaving, Muffin. Stay right where you are.

My heart kicked against my ribs. I looked up through the window, saw him still sitting in the driver's seat, phone in hand, watching me.

He knew. Of course he knew.

I typed back quickly: Not here. Too many people.

Zane: Good.

Good? What the hell did he mean good?

The door chimed.

And Zane Mercer walked in.

The entire café went silent.

He was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that fit him like it was designed specifically to ruin lives, the fabric stretched across his chest and arms in ways that should be illegal. His tattoos were on full display—the lion that started at his forearm and crawled up his bicep, disappearing under his sleeve but I knew it went all the way to his neck. I'd traced every line of it with my fingers the previous night ago.

He didn't look around. Didn't acknowledge the whispers that started immediately, the phones that came out, the way every single person in that café turned to stare.

He just walked straight toward me.

Confident. Predatory. Like he owned not just the room, but the entire city.

My breath caught. I couldn't move, couldn't think. He stopped a few feet away, pulled off his sunglasses with one hand, and slid them into his pocket. His eyes locked on mine—dark, intense, burning with something that made my knees weak.

"Hello, Muffin." His voice was low, rough, and way too loud for how quiet the café had gotten. "It's been less than twenty-four hours and I've already missed you so badly."

My eyes went wide. Every phone in the room was pointed at us now. Every pair of eyes watching.

"Not here," I hissed, standing up so fast I nearly knocked over my chair. "Please—"

But standing up was a mistake, because now I was way too close to him. Maybe an inch of space between us, if that. I could smell him—clean, expensive, mixed with something darker that made my brain go fuzzy.

"Oh my god, they look so good together," someone whispered behind me.

I turned to leave, to get out of this café and away from the cameras, but I only made it two steps before I felt his presence behind me. He was following, and I could feel that insufferable grin on his face without even looking.

"You didn't have to do that," I said once we were outside, my voice sharper than I intended. "Showing up like that, making a scene—"

His hand wrapped around my wrist and he spun me around.

I crashed into his chest, hard, my back hitting the side of his car.

"I told you," he said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "I don't do fake, Olive."

Then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was claiming, consuming, the kind of kiss that made everything else disappear. His hands were on my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I couldn't stop the sound that escaped my throat when his tongue swept against mine. He bit my lower lip—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me gasp—and I felt him smile against my mouth.

My hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, and for a second I forgot where we were. Forgot about the people watching, the cameras, the fact that this was all supposed to be pretend.

It didn't feel pretend.

He pulled back just enough to let me breathe, but his hands stayed on my waist, his forehead resting against mine.

"Zane—" I whispered, barely able to form words.

My eyes fluttered open. He was staring at me with that same impossible grin, the one that made me want to kiss him and slap him at the same time.

Then I heard it. The whispers. The gasps.

I turned my head and saw them—people on the sidewalk, phones out, some covering their mouths in shock, others openly gawking.

"You didn't have to do that here," I said, my voice shaky.

"Here is exactly where I needed to do it." His hands slid away from my waist and I hated how much I missed the weight of them. "Come on. Let's go."

He opened the passenger door—the princess seat, he'd called it once—and waited.

I got in. What else was I supposed to do?