The rink in Monaco was too warm. {{user}} hated that. Ice should bite at your skin, not melt beneath fluorescent lights. She was finishing a run-through of her short program when the sound of footsteps echoed across the empty stands.

She slowed, irritation flaring. The rink was supposed to be private. Her coaches had arranged it that way.

And yet, there he was. Tall, smug, and annoyingly sure of himself, leaning against the railing like he owned the place. Dark hair, sharp jawline, a smile that said I get away with everything.

“Impressive,” he called out, voice laced with that smooth French accent. “Though I think you missed a step on the landing.”

{{user}}’s jaw tightened. “And I think you should leave.”

He chuckled, not moving. “Touché. But really, your jumps—very good. You’re a skater, yes? Professionally?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Obviously.”

He held out a hand, though he didn’t step onto the ice. “Charles.”

She ignored it. “I don’t shake hands with strangers who critique my work.”

That seemed to amuse him even more. His grin widened like her rejection was a game. “Most people would be flattered.”

“Most people aren’t me.” She pushed off with her blade, sending a spray of ice shavings in his direction.