“No.” She shakes her head with a wry laugh. “Pretty sure he saw the invitation plastered to the computer up front and took matters into his own hands.”

But why be in New York at all? From what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t have any business in the Northeast, unless . . . Unless he told the truth when he said that he came to the gala to find me. Because, despite everything, he cares.

I’m halfway to the door, stilettos abandoned by the desk, when Stassi calls out, “Wait. Where the hell are you—?”

“I have to go.”

“Well, clearly.” Stassi shoves to her feet. “But where—”

“I just . . .” I back up, banging into the doorframe in my haste to leave. “I have to go. Don’t wait for me.”

“Laela! Dammit. Don’t just take off!”

It’s too late.

A second later, I’m already gone.

Chapter Five

Reid

New York City is a goddamn nightmare during the holidays.

Cabbies nearly clipping pedestrians like it’s a sadistic game of cat and mouse while tourists spill down narrow, cracked sidewalks, elbows jabbing all over the place as they oooh and aaah over the twinkling Rockefeller Christmas tree. Which doesn’t explain why I’m willing to risk freezing my nuts off for something that’s sure to end in misery.

I stare at the ice rink and feel my brows lower mutinously.

Closest I’ve ever come to skating has been on a pair of rollerblades. Much as I’d like to think that the two are compatible experiences, there’s a solid chance that I’ll end up on my ass while some toddler breezes past me, looking like Wayne Gretzky in a unicorn onesie.

“Fuck it,” I grunt, shoving my thickly socked foot into a pair of battered skates. I’ve got another seven hours to kill before my flight takes off for New Orleans, and I might as well spend it eating a slice of humble pie.

Anything to keep from thinking about Laela.

Gritting my teeth, I lace up the ties, then tug off the rubber skate guards, tossing them aside. At this time of day, Bryant Park is relatively empty. A few families skate on the far end, near the New York Public Library, while a man tugs his partner along behind him, their gloved hands clasped together as he tries to keep the shorter guy from sprawling on his face.

Looks like I’ll be in good company, at least.

I shove off the cold bench and hobble awkwardly toward the rink, not the least bit ashamed of the way I cling to the waist-high Plexiglas like I’m a newborn fawn trying to find my legs. Born-and-bred New Orleanians aren’t meant to walk on ice. It goes against the laws of physics, the very rules of nature, and here I am, living life on the fucking edge.

This is going to be a disaster.