“You’re up early.”
I turn. Derek is standing there in athletic gear, clearly just back from a run. Sweaty. But looking less hostile than usual, which is saying something.
“Right back at ya,” I say. “Wedding nerves?”
“Nope.” Derek pours himself coffee. Adds cream and sugar. We stand there in awkward silence for a moment, two guys who should probably be friends—teammates, after all—but aren’t.
“Listen,” Derek says finally. Turns to face me. “I owe you an apology.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“For what?”
“For being a jerk. About you and Chloe.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Maya and I were talking last night, and she sort of pushed back. Told me I was being weird and suspicious and probably too hard on you because of my own issues.”
“Your issues?”
Derek hesitates, glancing down at his coffee as though he’d like to drown himself in it rather than have this conversation. “Ashley Morrison is my cousin.”
I blink at him. “Wait—what?”
“Yeah. I’m the one who invited her to that charity event. She wanted to be an influencer, so I thought it might be good for her.” He takes a sip of his drink, glancing away. “Looking back on it, I probably could have seen it coming. They don’t call you Candy for nothing. You can be a charmer.”
I’ll try not to let that sting.
“And Ashley…” He grimaces. “I’ve always known she was…a lot. But when she told me about you, I believed her. Maybe because I wanted to believe the worst. Because it fit the narrative I already had about you.”
“What narrative?”
“That you coast on talent and good looks and your stupid smile. That you’re a player.”
My mouth sort of twists at that.
He takes a drink of his coffee. “But seeing you with Chloe the last few weeks, I’m starting to think maybe I was wrong.” He pauses, and something gives in his expression. A weight between us lifting. “I hope so.”
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.”
