His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 95

95 /180

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 accen 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. Cet 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, hat 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. Shou 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.