Clinging to Tony’s hand, she raced around the ice, feeling the wind in her hair and the snow on her face. He skated with the power and grace she remembered. He darted effortlessly through the milling throng, bringing her along on a ride that made her feel as though she were flying.

Just for these few moments, she touched the sort of joy that used to be so abundant in her life. Where had that gone? Like an uninvited guest slinking off to avoid being ejected, it had slipped away when she wasn’t looking. Now the feelings of hope and possibility returned and she refused to examine the reason for the change. Post-Byron euphoria, she told herself.

But a little inner voice whispered that her ex had nothing to do with the way she was feeling right now.

She soared over the ice with a man she’d never thought to see again. She even hummed along with the music. She had no idea who Wenceslas was, but she’d known his song forever, and she believed in his goodness. The crowd parted before them, some slowing down to watch—Tony, of course, not her. He was the pro, after all. Together, they probably looked like a Porsche towing a Volkswagen.

Tony matched his pace to hers, giving only a hint of the speed and aggression that had propelled him to the top of his sport, winning him scholarships and offers from the NHL. Now he swung along with an easy glide. He didn’t even seem to be watching where he was going. He was watching her.

And she couldn’t help but watch him. He had a face filled with character, a marked contrast to the conventional, vacuous good looks of the male models and socialites of her world. That was what had attracted her in the first place—that he was so different from the boys she knew. Through prep school and the early months of college, she’d dated slender blond young men with blasé attitudes of noblesse oblige and Roman numerals after their names. Unlike those pale, pampered boys, Tony Fiore had an unabashed appetite for life, a fiercely competitive spirit and something no one else had ever given her—genuine interest in Elaine herself, in her hopes and dreams, not her social connections and bank account.

As they skated, the edges of the rink elongated to streaks of color and light, and the smeared, surreal images revived all the sensations she’d felt years ago. She’d been giddy, filled with a sense of promise. Even though the first meeting was a chance encounter and they’d gone their separate ways, a part of her had believed it was the start of something special. How could it not be, when he gazed at her with magic in his eyes?

Yet the sturdy barriers between them had remained in place.

“We should date,” he’d said.