Oh.
That’s not what I expected.
I was prepared for excuses. For charm. For some smooth explanation that would make me feel stupid for caring in the first place. But this?
This feels almost…real.
Don’t fall for it, Chloe. You are a stone wall. A STONE WALL. This is Brody “Candy” Kane, notorious charmer, hockey-world sweetheart. It’s his job to protect his image. Do. Not. I repeat, DO NOT fall for it.
But there’s this tiny, traitorous part of my heart—the part that felt that pitter-patter when he saidgirlfriend, the part that’s been wondering for six months what was so wrong with me that he had to vanish—that is whispering:Maybe it wasn’t about you not being enough.
Stop.Stop.
“So what? You panicked, and you just left?” I’m trying to keep my voice level. My hands are shoved in my pockets, fingers already numb. “Without a word. Without?—”
“I’m sorry.” He steps closer. Not crowding, just…closer. I can smell his cologne now—something expensive and woodsy that brings back Barcelona in a rush. “I know that doesn’t fix it. But I am.”
My phone buzzes again. Insistent. I pull it out with stiff fingers.
Maya calling…
Perfect timing, universe.
I look at Brody. At the phone. At the digital sign.3 minutes.
“I have to…” I gesture with the phone. “It’s my sister. She’ll keep calling if I don’t?—”
“Answer it.”
I swipe to accept, turning slightly away for some semblance of privacy, even though we both know the older woman and probably half of Hennepin Avenue can hear everything.
“Hey, Maya, I’m kind of in the middle of?—”
“Derek just saw a photo.” Maya’s voice is tight. That particular tone that means she’s upset but trying to sound reasonable. “Of you. WithBrody Kane. Chloe.”
“What?” My mind is swirling. A photo of me…and Brody? Heat rises to my cheeks as I think back to the picture of us captured in Barcelona. “What photo?”
“It’s you and Brody inside what looks like a restaurant. From today.”
I let out a sigh of relief and immediately suck it back in. Oh no.Is this your girlfriend?the girl inside had asked.Oh…no, no. “It’s…complicated.”
“Complicated?” Her voice climbs. “He’s Derek’s teammate. They don’t exactly get along. And you—” She stops. Recalibrates. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
There it is. The subtext I’ve been hearing my whole life, wrapped in sisterly concern. I’m over my head, out of my league. Tell me something I don’t know.
“And he has a reputation,” she says, almost whispering it, like we might be in a hair salon, talking behind a copy ofPeoplemagazine.
“A reputation for what, exactly?” I know I shouldn’t ask. I already know I won’t like the answer.
“For dating models. Influencers. You know—” Another pause. More delicate. “You’re not exactly his type, Chloe.”
No duh. He’s standing there, looking away from me, his hands in his pockets, and she’s right. He’s gorgeous, with thoseshoulders, and dark hair and blue eyes. And then there’s me…flyaway hair tangled around my shoulders, chin turtle-tucked into my jacket collar, fully aware that I look ridiculous, bundled up like the Michelin Man. Maybe he had a touch of heatstroke that day in Barcelona.
“I’m just worried about you getting hurt. And”—the real concern surfaces—“I don’t want anything to mess up the wedding.”
There it is.
Don’t mess up my perfect wedding with your poor life choices, Chloe. Don’t embarrass us by being with someone out of your league. Don’t exist too loudly.
