I hesitate. There’s more. The other big thing that happened today, the one that had nothing to do with Tony and everything to do with storm-gray eyes and a quiet question that shattered my control. “Something else happened. After Tony left.”
“What?” she asks.
“Denton Blake and Tabby showed up to buy some cookies.” I swallow hard. “Tony had just walked out. I was… I was a disaster, Charlie.”
Charlie lets out a low whistle. “Perfect timing for Captain Control Freak.”
“That’s the thing,” I say slowly, the memory sharp and vivid. “He didn’t… react like I expected. Tabby ran ahead, excited, but Denton… he stopped. He looked at me. Really looked.”
I close my eyes, seeing it again. The way his usual scowl had deepened, then sharpened into something else entirely. “He asked if I was okay.”
Silence. Then, cautiously, “That’s… interesting.”
“Yeah. Just… ‘You okay?’” I mimic his low, gravelly tone. “And he just… stood there. Looking back at the door. Like… like…”
“Like he was guarding it?” Charlie finishes, her voice laced with disbelief.
“Yes.” The word comes out on a breath. “Exactly. Like he sensed a threat and decided to plant himself in front of it. In front of me.” The absurdity of it hits me again.
Denton Blake, acting as my… protector? “His whole posture changed, Charlie. It wasn’t grumpy. It was… protective.” Saying it aloud makes it feel even more improbable.
Charlie is quiet for a long moment. I can almost hear the gears turning in her brain. “Okay,” she says finally, drawing the word out. “So, Grumpy McHockeyPants showed a flicker of human decency. In the presence of obvious distress.”
“It felt like more than that,” I insist, the warmth of that moment flooding back. “The way he looked at me… it wasn’t judgment. It was… concern? And then he asked who that guy was.”
“He asked about Tony?” Charlie’s voice sharpens.
“Yeah.” I trace the pattern of the throw with my fingertip. “I brushed it off. Said Tony was just a pushy salesman.”
“Good,” Charlie says firmly. “Keep it that way. Denton Blake might have momentarily played knight in shining armor, but he’s not part of this fight. Bringing him into the Sugar Rush saga is just asking for complications we don’t need.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. Denton is a complication wrapped in an enigma, dipped in emotional unavailability.
He has Tabby, his hockey career, his carefully controlled world of ice and strategy. My crumbling cookie empire is the last thing he needs, or wants, to deal with.
“I know,” I sigh, leaning my head back against the sofa cushions. The weariness is bone-deep. “I’m not telling him. I just… wanted to tell you. About how it felt.”
Charlie’s sigh is audible, a mixture of affection and exasperation. “Oh, Hols. Sweet, sunshiney, hopelessly romantic Hols.” Her voice softens. “I know how it felt. It felt like a glimmer. A tiny spark of ‘maybe’. And that’s the dangerous part.”
I close my eyes. She’s hitting the nail squarely on the head. Just like she always does.
“Listen,” she continues, her tone gentle but firm. “He’s hot. Undeniably. Brooding and complicated and emotionally unavailable in a way that probably makes your romance novel heart do backflips. I get the appeal, okay? On paper, he’s basically your kryptonite wrapped in a hockey jersey.”
I can’t help but smile. She’s not wrong.
“But Hols,” her voice takes on that ‘best friend delivering hard truths’ edge, “he’s got more walls than a medieval fortress, and they’re topped with emotional barbed wire.
“And you?” She pauses for effect. “You build gingerbread castles and think sprinkles are a primary food group. You wear your heart on your apron for everyone to see. You fall fast and you fall hard, and your track record with finding men who actually appreciate that is… well, not very good.”
A parade of handsome faces flashes through my mind – the accountant who thought my business plan was ‘adorable’, the musician who found my early mornings ‘oppressive’, the graphic designer who politely suggested I might be ‘a bit much’ for his minimalist lifestyle.
Charlie’s been there for every heartbreak, handing out ice cream and sarcasm in equal measure. She knows the pattern. My hopelessly optimistic heart sees potential, throws itself headlong into the possibility of love, and ends up… devastated and alone.
“I know my track record sucks, Charlie,” I say quietly. “Believe me, I know.”
“It’s not that itsucks,” she corrects, her voice softening. “It’s that you deserve someone who sees the magic, Hols. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you have to dim your light or clean up your life to be loved.”
“Denton Blake?” She lets out another sigh. “He looked at Sugar Rush like it was a five-alarm fire hazard the first time he walked in. His default setting is suspicion and control. Is that really what you’re looking for?”
