It was a few days of training, and I’d be fine. It was good to get some California sun and catch up with Em and my friends from the rink in LA. I’d even managed to get through the funeral without crying. Apparently I’d wept so much on Henry’s shoulder in Torino that I was all out of tears.

I held my breath as I scanned my texts, but nope. Nothing from Henry. It was seven p.m. Toronto time, and he’d be home with Esmeralda after a long day of training. Why would he be texting me? I’d wanted to text him a million times since I’d left Italy, but I’d only typed them out and never sent them.

I’d bothered Henry enough. Hell, coming to train at his rink in the Olympic season was a lot. Leaning on him emotionally while I came apart at the seams in Torino had been even more.

Still, I’d sent him a message from LAX saying I was on my way back and asking if I could get a ride tomorrow. I reread his reply now.

Yes.

Obviously it was dumb for me to keep looking at that one word like I could decipher some hidden meaning. I’d asked a question, and he’d responded. The end. Sure, I’d blubbered all over him, and he’d been sweet and kind and we’d slept together—but not like that.

It didn’t mean anything had changed. I was his rival for gold, and I’d just beaten him again in Italy. He’d been far, far kinder than most people would be.

What was I even expecting?

The customs guy took my form and marked it with a line before telling me I was free to go. I hurried through the automatic frosted glass doors that sprang open to reveal clumps of people waiting for passengers.

One family had a bunch of helium balloons and flowers. There were drivers holding passenger names on cardboard signs, but I was just going to call a Lyft and—

At the bottom of the little ramp to the waiting area, I jerked to a stop. A man behind me banged my heels with his suitcase and muttered a curse. I was blocking the way, and I ordered myself to move and stop staring at Henry.

And I was staring at Henry because Henry was here.

He waited alone near the back of the waiting area in his black practice pants, sneakers, and blue puffy winter jacket, and he was beautiful.

My stomach flip-flopped as I bit back a shout of pure, unexpected joy. I was probably grinning like an idiot as I practically ran toward him, dragging my suitcase instead of pushing it on the wonky wheel.

“What are you doing here?” I asked because I’m a dumbass. I quickly added, “I mean, I guess you’re picking me up? Thank you! Awesome. I had no idea. You really didn’t have to. Traffic must have been terrible coming out here!” How had he known my flight number? Sure, I’d texted about the ride tomorrow, but…