Page 114 of Cross Ice

“He’ll want to fix it.”

“Maybe you need him to fix it.”

I set the brownie down on the coffee table. “I don’t want strategies, Danny. I don’t want PR plans or statements or ways to manage being recognized. I just want my life back.”

“You can’t have your life back. Not the way it was.” He said it gently, but it still landed like a punch to the gut. “That’s not an option anymore. So you either figure out how to live with this, or you end the relationship.”

“I can’t end it.”

“Why not?”

I thought about Nico holding me in my entryway. The sandwiches he’d made without being asked, the groceries with the sparkling water I liked, the way he’d shown up at my door, not to fix anything, but just to be there. The way he looked at me sometimes, like I was something worth being careful with. He was warm and completely certain of himself in a way that should have felt like too much, and somehow, with him, I felt less alone in my skin than I had in years.

“Because I’m falling for him,” I said quietly. “And I don’t know how to stop.”

Danny looked at me for a long moment. “Then you need to tell him how bad this is. Let him help. Actually let him help, not just say you’re fine and push him away.”

“What if his help isn’t enough?”

“Then at least you’ll know you tried.”

That evening, Nico showed up at my apartment at eight, after a team obligation.

“Hey, sorry I—” he said when I opened the door. His smile dropped the second he saw me. “What happened?”

I let him in and locked the door behind him. We sat on my couch, and I showed him the blog post on my laptop. His jaw tightened as he read. He didn’t say anything until he’d finished.

“This is…” He shook his head. “They documented where you live. Your routine. Your coffee order.”

“A neighbor talked to them. Someone I’ve probably said hello to in the hallway gave them information about my life.”

“We need to call Rachel. She needs to know about this.”

“Rachel handles your PR. Not mine.”

“She can still help coordinate⁠—”

“Nico.” I turned toward him. “That’s not even the worst part.” I told him about the grocery store. The woman. The way she’d followed me to my car.

“Did she touch you?” His voice was tight.

“No. She was nice. She just wanted a photo. To meet with us.”

“And you said no?”

“I panicked and ran.”

I could see him working through it: his problem-solving expression, the search for a move.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Maybe you shouldn’t go to stores alone. I could come with you, or Danny could⁠—”

“Nico, I can’t have a security detail to buy groceries.”

“Then we’ll get groceries delivered⁠—”

“I already get groceries delivered. I’ve been getting everything delivered for a week. It doesn’t help. It just makes my world narrower.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Wesley.”