“Come sit,” Wesley nods at a bench near the edge of the rink, slightly out of the traffic. I hesitate—work brain says I should be shooting, not sitting, but my legs saytry me, and my heart saysdon’t be stupid.
I sit.
Wesley drops beside me, careful not to touch. “You okay?” he asks without looking at me.
“Fine.” I take a sip. “My dignity’s at large. If found, return to owner.”
He huffs. “You did great. You’ll be passing me by New Year’s.”
I giggle. “Thanks for not letting me go viral as the girl who concussed herself at Rockefeller Center.”
“Any time.” He tilts his head. “You seem...different today.”
I choke on hot chocolate. “Different how?”
“A little...” He grins. “Wobblier than usual.”
I swat him. “Wobblier? That’s your medical diagnosis?”
“Yes,” he says solemnly. “Terminal case.”
I laugh, but something in my chest slips its leash. Snow flurries. Tree lights blink. Ris is squealing like she’s auditioning for Broadway. I should leave. I should put distance between us before I ask to sit in my coworker’s lap.
Instead I stay. Because he’s warm and solid and he hasn’t once looked at me like I’m a problem to solve.
“Hey,” Wesley says, lower now. “You wanna tell me what’s bugging you?”
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. I could lie. Or I could do the reckless thing.
“I’m...coming to terms with losing my inheritance in ten days.”
His brow ticks up. “What’d you do, kill somebody?”
“Much worse. I turned out to be a modern, independent woman.”
“And that’s...frowned upon?”
“My late grandmother thought so.” I sip cocoa to buy time. “She put it in writing. Engaged by twenty-five or lose the trust. I mean, who even gets married that young anymore?” I snort, bitter and amused. “That’s basically adolescence with a credit card.”
The truth tastes bitter. If I lose this money, I lose the foundation I’m building. Those girls don’t get free dance classes, and it’s like my grandmother wins even after she’s dead.
“Ah.” His mouth curves dryly. “The ultimate crime. Breaking tradition. Also known as terror by dead people.”
I blink at him. “You just casually dismantle social constructs between shifts?”
“Pretty much.” His knee bumps mine. Heat zips up my leg. “Is it a lot of money?”
“It’s not about the money really,” I mutter. “It’s the principle.” I pause, then launch into my rant. “It’s not like being twenty-five now is the same as when Grandma was twenty-five.” I roll my eyes. “Back then, they danced all night, stumbled home smelling of tequila, and called it romance. Us?” I gesture at my cup. “We’re up at five a.m. journaling our intentions, choking down green smoothies, and sweating through Pilates. We’re basically monks in hoodies.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So what’s the Brule?”
“Brule?”
“Bullshit rule.”
God, I like this guy. “Get engaged by New Year’s Eve or forfeit my inheritance.” He doesn’t flinch. Just listens. “I found out a few days ago.” My words crack slightly. “Not exactly enough time to order a fiancé on Amazon Prime.”
“Nope,” Wesley snorts. Then, “So what are you going to do? Follow the brule? Or make your own?”
