Levi chuckles. Hannah doesn’t. “Always nice to see hometown boys doing well,” she says, voice taut.
“Isn’t it?” Joy echoes, bright and sharp. Then louder, for the crowd: “And he’s all mine now. Can you believe he was single when I met him?”
Hannah blinks, startled by the display.
I should stop her. Dial it back. But watching Joy fight for me—defend me—does things I can’t name.
Then someone shouts, “Smile, Wesley!”
A flash goes off. Frank Morrison, Coach’s son, has his camera up, waiting for the money shot.
Joy gasps. “Oh my God, yes, perfect lighting!”
Before I can process what’s happening, she grabs my collar, turns my face toward hers, and announces loud enough for half the harbor to hear, “Make it good for the socials, babe!”
Then she kisses me.
Not soft. Not fake. A camera-flash, fireworks, full-tilt Christmas miracle of a kiss that blows the top off my restraint.
Snow melts in her hair. Her mouth is heat and possession, her gloved fingers fisted in my jacket staking a claim. The crowd disappears. Hannah disappears. Everything disappears except Joy—tasting of victory, kissing me like she means it.
I grip her waist, pulling her closer. She makes a sound—half laugh, half gasp—and the kiss deepens until I forget we have an audience.
Until I forget this is supposed to be pretend.
The crowd whistles. The camera clicks. I should be watching Hannah; that was the whole point, right? Make her regretleaving me. But I can’t look away from Joy—flushed, bright-eyed, still pressed against me.
Fuck Hannah.This stopped being about her the second Joy kissed me in that car and I realized I was gone.
Joy pulls back, cheeks pink, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Tag the Defenders,” she tells Frank, breathless. Then, to Hannah, sweet and venomous, “Happy holidays.”
Hannah’s mouth opens in astonishment, then shuts. “I’m glad you’re happy, Wes,” she says finally. “You deserve that.”
Then Levi’s hand finds hers. “Happy holidays, guys.”
They melt into the crowd. I wait for the ache, the regret, the ghost of what we were.
Nothing.
I look down at Joy and realize, I’m free.
She tucks herself under my arm, smug and glowing, while my pulse jackhammers in my throat.
“Foxy,” I murmur, leaning close. “That was one hell of a PR move.”
She grins, wicked and devastating. “You’re welcome, superstar. Consider your image rehabilitated.”
Waving to Frank, she steps away, still playing the part. And I stand there, snow drifting down, harbor lights glowing gold, realizing I’m completely fucked.
Because I’m in love with a woman who thinks this is all pretend. A woman who’ll take off that ring in a week and tuck me neatly back into the friend zone—unless I figure out how to make her consider me.
“Wesley?” Her voice cuts through the noise. “Ready to head back?”
I take her gloved hand, fingers lacing automatically. “Yeah,” I lie. “Let’s go.”
But as we walk back, all I can think is how the hell I tell her this is real.
We’re halfway home when I notice Dad standing across the street, outside Callahan’s Hardware, coffee steaming in his hand, watching us through the falling snow.
