He waits for me to expand. I don’t.
“And?” he prompts.
“And…you’re very good at hockey.” It was that orYou look great in hockey pads, and that didn’t seem like the right direction for my first date with my fake boyfriend.
His shoulders tense. “Not lately.”
“So you got benched. It’s not like that happens all the time. Well, actually, I have no idea if that happens to you all the time?—”
“It doesn’t.”
“Right. It doesn’t.” I continue with my weird and probably very unhelpful pep talk. “So, it was just a bad game. You’ll…knock ’em dead next time. Is that a phrase? For hockey?”
Brody glances at me, the tense lines of his face melting away. He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “No, it’s not…but thanks.”
I try my best for a reassuring smile, and thankfully, his eyes are back on the road.
The rest of the drive is quiet. But it’s nice. Comfortable.
He parks on the street, gets out, opens my door before I can beat him to it.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Open my door. Be”—I wave vaguely—“all chivalrous and stuff. I mean, it’s just us. No one’s watching. You can save the Prince Charming routine for when we have an audience.”
“Maybe I want to.” He grins, and it transforms his entire face, his blue eyes warm, his smile white and what looks genuine, and bam, it’s like a bomb of confetti goes off in my chest. Oh, no wonder they call him Candy. “Practice, right? Devoted boyfriend behavior.”
Right.
Practice.
This is practice. He’s practicing. You’re a practice dummy. A very well-compensated practice dummy who needs to stop reading subtext into every little thing he does.
I follow him down the unmarked stairs to Brew & Rumor’s basement entrance. The small brass plaque reading “B&R” is the only hint this place exists.
Inside, it’s like walking into a 1920s speakeasy, if speakeasies served oat milk lattes and had decent Wi-Fi. Exposed brick, Edison bulbs, the rich mahogany bar that now serves coffee instead of bootleg whiskey. Mismatched vintage leather armchairs sit alongside velvet sofas in deep jewel tones. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with mystery novels and yellowed newspapers.
The rumor wall—covered in typewritten anonymous tips and conspiracy theories—takes up the entire back wall. Someone’s added a new one since last week:
The truth about the Blue Ox losing streak: cursed hockey sticks or poor conditioning?
“This place is incredible,” Brody says, looking around like he’s stumbled into Narnia, except with better coffee.
And I wonder…He brought me coffee from here just days ago, so why does he act like he’s never been here? Or maybe he ran through the drive-thru?
Anyway, “I know. I’ve been coming here since college.” I point to a corner table tucked between bookshelves. “That’s my spot.”
We order lattes for both of us and egg bites. The barista, Marcus, recognizes me and winks. “Special occasion?”
“Work meeting,” I say, maybe a little too quickly.
Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
We settle into the corner. The vintage lamp casts warm light across Brody’s face, highlighting his jaw, the tired shadows under his eyes, and it hits me.
He didn’t sleep well.
