Drive safe. We’re meeting at the hotel restaurant at 7. See you there!
And my heart does that silly little flip when I hit Send.
But—complete transparency—I’m getting used to that feeling, because things have been different. Better. (So much better.) Since his game in Seattle.
We’ve been texting every day (real texts, not those one-word responses he was giving me before), talking about everything. His games. My new book idea. The crazy thing he overheard in the Starbucks line at the airport. Everything and nothing.
He’s playing better too. I’ve watched all three of his games this week (not obsessive at all), and there’s something different about him on the ice. Calmer. More focused. Like whatever was chasing him finally slowed down.
And after every game, he calls before bed. And we talk on the phone, filling in the gaps that we forgot to text about.
He’s the last person I want to talk to every day and the first person I want to talk to when I wake up. Which feels…really dangerous.
Because I can’t see the lines anymore, where fake-boyfriend Brody stops and Barcelona Brody begins.
And that’s?—
Yeah.
I’m not going to think about that right now either.
I shove it into the mental drawer, right next to the Stratton Publishing letter, and start getting ready for dinner.
Le Papillon is exactly what you’d expect from a resort restaurant trying very hard to be fancy. Warm wood. Soft lighting. White tablecloths. Fresh flowers on every table. The smell of butter and herbs, garlic and rosemary, wafts in the air, mingling with the classical music playing overhead.
We’re all seated at a long table—wedding party at one end, family at the other. It’s maybe twenty people total. Derek’s parents are at the head, speaking animatedly with my mom. My brother is right at home, talking hockey with the boys. And somehow, I got myself sandwiched in the middle of Maya’s bridesmaids, trying to look even remotely engaged in the conversation while my gaze keeps going back to the entrance.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Brody strolls into the restaurant wearing dark jeans, a blue polo, and a gray sports jacket that complements those gray-blue eyes I can’t seem to get enough of. His hair is slightly windswept, jaw dusted with stubble. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks.
His gaze finds mine immediately.
Something in his expression shifts. Softens.
He crosses the restaurant in long strides, weaving between tables. I stand without thinking about it, my chair scraping against the floor.
I’m only halfway to my feet when he pulls me into a hug.
His arms wrap around me, solid and warm. He smells like winter air and his woodsy cologne. His chin rests on top of my head for just a second.
“Hey,” he says quietly. Just for me.
“Hey.”
We pull apart. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, his gaze taking me in.
“You look beautiful.”
Heat instantly rises to my cheeks. “Thanks. You look”—I gesture vaguely at him—“surprisingly great. For someone who just drove three hours.”
He grins, and I just…melt. “High praise.”
Maya waves from down the table. “Brody! Come sit!”
There’s a newly empty chair next to me, and Brody takes it without hesitation. His knee bumps mine under the table. He doesn’t move it away.
