His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 95: Olive's Pov

She had natural ginger hair that fell in waves past her shoulders, grey eyes, and tanned skin that seemed to glow in the studio lighting. She wore a simple black dress, and when she smiled, it was warm and genuine.

"I think I'm the one at fault," she said, and her voice had an accent I couldn't quite place. Latina maybe? "I was passing by and walked too close to you."

I laughed, rubbing my shoulder which still hurt from the collision. "No, I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy staring at the art."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, glancing at the basketball painting. "The way the artist captured movement. Makes you feel like you're watching the game in real time."

"Exactly," I said, surprised that she got it.

She held out her hand, that warm smile still on her face. "My name is Paloma."

"Olive," I said, shaking her hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"Olive," she repeated, like she was testing the name. "That's beautiful. Unusual."

"My mom has a thing for nature names," I said.

Paloma's eyes lingered on me for a moment, something I couldn't read passing across her face, before she smiled again.

"You came alone?" she asked, looking around like she was checking for someone.

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Just wanted to see some art, you know. Get back to reality for a bit."

"I understand that," she said. "Sometimes we all need to escape into beauty. Reminds us there's more to life than whatever chaos we're dealing with."

There was something about her voice, about the way she spoke, that made me want to keep talking to her. She felt... safe somehow. Easy to talk to.

"I think I've seen you somewhere," she said suddenly, her eyes squinting slightly as she studied my face. "I can't quite place it."

I knew exactly what she was referring to. The photos. The videos. My face plastered all over social media because of Zane.

"Oh god," she said, her eyes widening. "You're dating that hot hockey player. What was his name again...? Zane Mercer?"

The way she said it was so casual, so normal, not like the obsessive fan girls who screamed his name or the jealous women who glared at me like I'd stolen something from them.

"Yes," I admitted. "I am."

"Well," Paloma said, her smile getting wider, "since we're both here alone, watching art, why don't we go grab a bite to eat? My treat. I'd love the company."

I stared at her, taken aback by the offer.

I should say no. Should tell her I have work to get back to. Should remember that I came here to meet whoever was sending me those messages, not to make new friends.

But there was something about her that I couldn't resist. Something that made me want to say yes.

"Yes," I heard myself say. "Definitely."

"Perfect," Paloma said, already turning toward the exit. "There's a great cafe just down the street. Best coffee in the city."

I followed her out of the art studio, my earlier purpose completely forgotten, too caught up in this unexpected encounter to remember why I'd come here in the first place.

The cafe was exactly the kind of place I would have chosen myself—cozy but modern, with large windows that let in natural light and plants hanging from the ceiling and the smell of fresh coffee beans filling the air.

We found a table near the back, away from the main crowd, and Paloma immediately ordered for both of us without even looking at the menu.

"Trust me," she said when she saw my expression. "Everything here is amazing. You won't regret it."

And she was right. When the food came, it was incredible—avocado toast with poached eggs, fresh fruit, and some kind of pastry that melted in my mouth.

"So," Paloma said, taking a sip of her coffee. "Tell me about yourself. What's it like dating a famous hockey player? Is it as glamorous as everyone thinks?"

I laughed, almost choking on my coffee. "Glamorous? Not exactly. More like chaotic and complicated and occasionally terrifying."

"Terrifying?" she asked, leaning forward with interest.

"The attention," I explained. "The cameras. The fans. Everyone having opinions about your relationship. It's a lot."

"I can imagine," she said, and something in her voice made me think she really could imagine it. "But you must love him if you're willing to deal with all that."

Did I love Zane?

The question hit me like a punch to the gut because I hadn't let myself think about it, hadn't let myself go there.

"I don't know," I admitted quietly. "It's complicated."

"Love usually is," Paloma said wisely. "Especially with men like that. Men who are used to getting what they want. Men who don't understand the word no."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," I said.

Her smile faltered for just a second, something dark crossing her face before she smoothed it away.

"We all have our stories," she said lightly. "Our history with complicated men. That's what makes us interesting, right?"

We talked for over an hour, and I found myself opening up to her in ways I hadn't expected. Telling her about my family, about Hunter's hockey career, about my job at Hopkins Enterprise.

She listened like she genuinely cared, asked questions that showed she was actually paying attention, and shared stories about her own life—growing up in Argentina, moving to the States, working in the fashion industry.

"You're so easy to talk to," I said at one point. "I feel like I've known you for years instead of an hour."

"Some people just click," she said, smiling. "I felt it too the moment we met. Like we were meant to find each other today."

My phone buzzed on the table and I glanced down.

Zane.

Calling.

My heart jumped and I looked back up at Paloma, feeling suddenly guilty for some reason I couldn't name.

"Is that him?" she asked, nodding toward my phone.

"Yeah," I admitted.

"Pick it up," she said, still smiling. "It's your star hockey player. I haven't heard his voice in person in such a long time."

Something about the way she said it made my skin prickle.

"What do you mean?" I asked slowly. "Have you met him before?"

"Just seen him at games," she said quickly. "On TV. You know how it is with celebrities. Feel like you know them even though you've never actually met them."

But something felt off. Something about her expression, about the way she was looking at my phone, at Zane's name on the screen.

My thumb hovered over the answer button.

"Go ahead," Paloma encouraged, taking another sip of her coffee. "Answer it. I don't mind."

The phone kept ringing.

And something in my gut was screaming that I shouldn't answer it. Not here. Not in front of her.

But that was crazy, right? Paloma was just a new friend I'd met by chance. Someone who'd been kind enough to have coffee with me.

So why did I feel like answering this call would be a mistake?