“Fiona let me pet her stomach last week,” Sydney says smugly. “Maisie said she’s never done that with anyone else.”
We glare at each other over the heads of two oblivious beavers who are happily accepting food, completely unaware of the ridiculousness unfolding above them.
“I should get back to work. I have to prepare for this evening’s segment.” She stands, brushing snow from her knees. “Anyway, our not doing this is a good thing—we’d kill each other within a week, anyway.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Something about this entire interaction has left me off-balance, like a check I didn’t see coming.
As she brushes past me to head to her car, the scent of her… what is that? Shampoo? It’s definitely lavender and maybe vanilla too—and it distracts me again. For a split second, I let myself imagine what it might be like to actually date Sydney Holt. To have someone in my corner.
But I can’t. I wouldn’t involve anyone else in the shitshow that’s my life.
Still, as I watch her walk toward her car, her shoulders squared like she’s heading into battle, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made the right choice.
7
In the Bag
SYDNEY
Iwake with a gasp at 4:30 a.m., my alarm clock still fifteen minutes from its scheduled screaming. Sleep claimed me around one, after my brain replayed, in excruciating detail, the moment I asked Brooks Kingston to fake date me. And his subsequent “absolutely not” that probably echoed all the way to Boise. Fantastic. Nothing says “ready for a career-defining day” like the dark circles under my eyes and the lingering sting of humiliation burning in my chest.
I drag myself to the bathroom, flipping on the harsh light that does absolutely nothing for my complexion. The mirror confirms it.
I look like shit. Happy Hump Day to me.
“Thanks for nothing, Kingston.” I splash cold water on my face.
I know it was a long shot. Asking your brother’s best friend and childhood nemesis to pretend to date you for career advancements is pretty out there.Reallyout there. It’s also the last thing I’deverthought I’d do after I dated Jake, Jonah’s teammate that scared me off men... maybe for good. I learned what everyone else already knew: never do long distance with a hot, famous hockey player. Duh.
Anyway, yesterday with Brooks, I made a split-second decision because I was desperate. No good decisions are made out of desperation.
The shower helps marginally. By 5:15, I’m dressed in my most professional navy blazer and pencil skirt, armor as I head to the bunker to take grenades. I apply concealer with dedication—dark circles, be gone. Red lipstick follows, because if I’m going down, I’m looking like I could kill with my stilettos.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You’ll survive. You’ll find another way.”
My kitchen is quiet as I brew coffee strong enough to strip paint. Then, I pour it into a travel mug emblazoned with the KBVR logo—a cartoon beaver holding a microphone, as BVR stands for beaver. The station handed them out as Christmas bonuses last year.
I force down half a bagel, though my stomach protests. The anxiety that’s become my constant companion bubbles just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. I close my eyes and count backward from ten, but right now, the image of Brooks’ face when I proposed our fake relationship pops into my mind. The confusion, followed by something that looked almost like consideration, before landing on a firm screw-off.
I’d rather walk over fire than have to pretend to love you.
Well, the feeling is entirely mutual. I can’t stand him either. So what if he moves like poetry on ice? So what if his shoulders are broader than should be legally allowed? So what if I sometimes catch myself wondering what it would be like if things were different between us?
That last thought stops me cold. Nope. Not going there. Brooks Kingston is the human equivalent of a splinter—painful, irritating, and best removed ASAP.
As I back out of my driveway, still anxious, I curse. It’s so cold my windshield is already frosting over, despite the defroster working overtime. But luckily, the road to the station is practically empty at this hour. Most of Dickens is still wrapped in dreams, blissfully unaware that today is a complete shit day for one Sydney Holt, weather girl extraordinaire.
My thoughts drift to high school, when I was a sophomore, Brooks was a junior, and we had PE together. Mrs. Hendricks decided ballroom dancing was an essential life skill. He and I were paired together because alphabetically, Holt and Kingston fell next to each other on the roster. I was prepared for two weeks of torture, of Brooks stepping on my toes and making snarky comments about my lack of coordination.
Instead, he’d been... good. Better than good. His hand on my waist had been firm but gentle, guiding me through the steps with surprising grace. When I’d stumbled, he’d caught me without comment, his eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze. But he never made me feel clumsy. Never laughed when I got the steps wrong.
It was the only time in our long history of mutual antipathy that we’d achieved anything resembling a truce. For those two weeks, we’d moved together in silent understanding, his body telegraphing the next move before I could even think about it.
The King is his nickname on the ice, sure, but according to the gossip rags, there are other reasons he earned that title. Reasons that had nothing to do with hockey.
Not that I’ve ever thought about that.Much.
My car pulls into the station parking lot at 5:50 a.m., ten minutes before I’m officially due. The sky is just beginning to lighten, a strip of glow at the horizon promising a day that, weather-wise at least, should be cold but beautiful. Career-wise? The forecast calls for crushing disappointment with a chance of public humiliation.
