She stops inches away, tilting her head back to look at me. Her eyes narrow. "Yah, your horny face. It's a good face. But this is different. This is... I don't know… Excited?"
“Just hockey stuff,” I deflect, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Her skin is warm, and impossibly soft. “Trade rumors. Contract extensions. The usual end-of-season noise.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Just… incomplete.
“Fine. Be mysterious. But I’m onto you.”
I dip my head, brushing my lips against the sensitive spot below her ear. She shivers, a full-body ripple I feel against my skin. “How about that coffee?”
“Coffee is acceptable,” she murmurs, tilting her head to give me better access.
“As a prelude to croissants. And maybe… post-croissant activities?” Her hand slides down my back, fingers teasing the waistband of my sleep pants.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. Insistent. Jarring. We both freeze.
Jane sighs dramatically, dropping her forehead against my collarbone. “Your phone has the worst timing. It’s like it knows.”
She pulls back, gesturing towards my pocket. “Go on. Answer your ‘hockey stuff’. I’ll start the coffee.”
Mom:West. We need to talk. Urgently. Brunch. Our casita. Eleven-thirty AM sharp. Bring… your girlfriend? DO NOT BE LATE.
Aunt Milly:Heard a fascinating rumor at water aerobics, dear boy. Something about you fathering a secret love child named Mason with a delightful young woman who also claims you’re batting for the other team? Bring the girl. This should be better than bridge.
I run into the casita to share the news.
“Brunch with the Prescotts? Battle stations! Code Red! DEFCON 1!” Jane practically vibrates withpanic.
“West! This is an inquisition by your legal family. A tribunal! And my head on the spike!”
Jane starts pacing, “I need intel now. Deep intel. What are your parents’ hobbies? Weaknesses? Favorite flowers? Do they prefer subtle flattery or full-on groveling? Tell me everything!”
"Oh West, how did we get here? Am I supposed to meet them as your fake girlfriend now after being the biggest saboteur to the last Prescott heir?"
"You didn't sabotage anything. You helped me out of—"
"I'm short-sighted—good at putting out fires, really bad at establishing fire lines and containment." She shakes her head. "I didn't think about them actually wanting to MEET me."
Jane presses her palms to her cheeks. “Okay. Deep breaths. Wardrobe. I need armor. Or at least something that screams 'responsible adult who definitely doesn't have a team of male hockey players as her harem.” She bolts for the bedroom.
I follow, leaning against the doorframe as she flings open her suitcase with the focused intensity of a general preparing for battle. Dresses, skirts, and tops fly out in a colorful arc, landing haphazardly on the bed.
She holds each article of clothing against herself, her expression a pure, adorable crisis.
She’s trying so damn hard. Trying to perform. To be the perfect, polished girlfriend she thinks my parents expect. To fix the chaos she unleashed, even if they were all for me.
The realization hits me like a puck to the gut. She shouldn’t be performing. The chaos, the scrappiness, the glorious, unvarnished realness of her… that’s what disarmed me. That’s what’s burrowing under my skin, past all the defenses and the ‘clean break’ agreements.
Watching her try to contort herself into some acceptable box for anyone feels… wrong.
I push off the doorframe, walk over and pull her into a reassuring hug. “Jane, you don’t need an armor.”
She blinks. “I… don’t?”
“No.” I reach out, plucking the coral dress from her hands and tossing it gently back onto the pile. “Just… be you. The woman who tells Veronica Vance I’m on my own journey. The woman who sells her car to keep the lights on. The woman who…”
I pause, the words ‘ruined me last night’ hovering dangerously close.
