My throat tightens.
“So”—Derek extends his hand—“truce?”
I shake his hand. “Truce.”
He meets my eyes. “Don’t prove me wrong.” He releases my hand. Nods. Then leaves, taking the stairs two at a time.
And I’m standing there with my coffee, my stomach knotting. Don’t prove me wrong.
When I get back to the room, Chloe’s awake. She’s sitting on the edge of the sofa in black leggings and an oversized cream sweater with a red heart on the front. Hair pulled into a messy bun. No makeup. Looking soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurts.
“Hey,” she says, her voice still rough with sleep. “Where’d you go?”
“Coffee run.” I hold up both cups. “One boring mocha latte for you, made by yours truly. I apologize in advance—it’s not a candy cane mocha, just plain ol’ milk and chocolate sauce swiped from the breakfast bar.”
“Please. You don’t do anything halfway.”
She takes the cup like I just handed her the Holy Grail. Takes a sip. Closes her eyes and makes a sound that probably shouldn’t be legal before seven a.m.
“This is perfect. Thank you.” She takes another sip, cradling the cup in both hands. “How’d you sleep?”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It was fine.” Aside from the part where I didn’t sleep. But I can’t tell her that. Not without admitting that it was the thought of losing her in twenty-four hours that had me lying awake all night.
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me but isn’t going to push it. “Well, thank you. You’re a real gentleman.”
The morning light is stronger now, streaming through the windows and making the lake visible—patches of ice and dark water, pine trees framing the view.
“Want to go for a walk?” I ask. “Before the wedding chaos starts?”
“You read my mind. I need to move before Maya finds me and starts panicking about something.”
We grab our coats—hers a puffy jacket that makes her look tiny, mine the standard wool coat I use all winter—and we head downstairs together, coffee cups in hand like we’re a normal couple doing normal couple things.
The lobby is starting to wake up. A family with small kids heading toward breakfast. An older couple reading newspapers by the fireplace that’s been relit. The smell of bacon and coffee drifting from the restaurant.
“Excuse me?” A woman’s voice stops us near the entrance. “Are you Chloe Dawson?”
We turn. She’s maybe forty, dressed in a way that’s giving off a covert-professional vibe. Slim jeans, sweater, expensive boots. Holding a tablet and wearing a press credential on a lanyard.
“Yes?” Chloe says, sounding uncertain.
“I’m Jennifer Hartley, from Minnesota Bridal Magazine. I’m here to cover the Dawson–Munson wedding.” She’s smiling, friendly. “Felicity Grant mentioned you’re the event planner who planned not only the wedding but also the prewedding events? I’d love to chat with you about your business while I’m here. Get your perspective on what makes a great wedding.”
Chloe’s eyes widen. “Oh. Um, yeah. Sure. I’d love to.”
Jennifer’s gaze falls on me. Studies me for a moment. “Oh my goodness, you’re?—”
“Brody Kane.” I extend my hand. “I’m with Chloe.”
The words come out before I can think about them. I’m with Chloe. Not “I’m her date for the wedding.” Not “We’re seeing each other.” Just…I’m with her.
It feels right.
“Oh!” Jennifer’s smile widens. “I’d heard you two are dating. What a great story—the event planner and her hockey player. Would you both be willing to sit for a quick interview?”
