The relief that floods through me is embarrassing.
“But you dated one?” I press, even though I know I shouldn't. “Is that why you hate me?”
Please say no. Please say—
“I don't hate you.”
I’m conflicted. She hasn’t denied dating a hockey player, but she also told me she doesn’t hate me.
Fucking progress.
“Are you sure you don’t hate me?”
“If I hated you, do you really think I’d be sitting in your truck looking like this.” She gestures at herself.
That’s when I let myself look at her again.
Perfection.
She looks like she stepped out of a kid’s movie in a blue princess dress which has puffy sleeves and a giant skirt. She toys with the tiara in her hands as though she’s waiting for me to mock her.
Never. She’s so fucking gorgeous in this moment. I’d tell her if I didn’t think it would earn a punch in the balls.
“I gotta admit,” I say, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face, “when I started calling you Princess, I didn’t realize you were one.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile before she puts the tiara on her head and reaches for her makeup bag. “I know. I look ridiculous. You don't have to remind me.”
Ridiculous? Is she serious?
“You look hot,” I blurt out.
The words escape before my brain can catch them. My eyes widen slightly because—fuck—did I just say that out loud?
She freezes with a mascara wand halfway to her face.
For a second, she just stares at me, and I swear I see something flash across her face. Surprise? Pleasure? But then she blinks and it's gone, replaced by that familiar defensive wall.
“Right. Because every guy's fantasy is a girl drowning in enough tulle to upholster a couch.” She gestures at the absurd amount of fabric surrounding her, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
My chest tightens. Every single time. Every time I try to tell her something real, she twists it into an insult.
“Why do you do that?” The question comes out sharper than I intended. I pull into the parking lot of the hotel across fromBehind Closed Doors.
She pauses. “Do what?”
“Take everything I say as an insult.”
“I-I don't,” she stammers, and that catches me off guard. Laura doesn't stammer. She fires back with sharp retorts and cutting remarks. But right now? Her usual armor is cracking. “I'm just nervous. I've got to go in there and act like a princess in approximately five minutes.”
“Yeah, I got that from the outfit,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “But what does that mean exactly?”
She takes a breath. “You know the movieIced Out? The one done by Evermore Productions?”
I nod. Everyone knows that movie.
“Well, that's what I do. I dress up as her and attend children's birthday parties. I sing, I dance, I talk about my pet snow fox named Nibbles, and I make little girls believe in magic for a couple of hours.”
Children's birthday parties.
