Tonight matters.
Sponsors. Donors. The team. My father.
And me, apparently, as Jake Morrison’s steady plus one.
I glance over my shoulder.
Jake is in the room behind me, tugging on his dress shirt with the kind of stiff irritation I’m used to by now. He looks unfairly good.
He catches my stare in the mirror.
His eyes linger on my mouth for a second too long.
My stomach flips.
Then he clears his throat like he’s annoyed at himself and looks down to button his cuffs.
I finish the eyeliner and step out into the room.
I’m wearing a black dress that’s simple and elegant and makes me feel like I belong in a room full of rich people who donate money to hockey charities. It also makes me feel a little too seen, because it clings in places I didn’t expect it to cling.
Jake’s gaze dips again.
I try not to smile.
“Ready?” I ask.
He grunts something that might be yes.
Then he adds, “These dinners always leave me hungry.”
I blink.
“That’s the problem you’re going with?” I tease, smoothing my dress over my hips.
Jake grabs his jacket from the chair. “It’s all tiny portions and speeches. You get one tiny chicken breast and one asparagus next to it, and they call that a meal. Don’t they know I need fuel?”
I snort.
He gives me a look. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” I say, stepping closer and fixing the collar of his shirt without thinking. And I do know. The portions he has to eat, and how often he has to eat, are ridiculous.
“You’re hungry already?” I ask.
Jake’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
I know him.
This is pre-grumpy Jake. The version of him that’s already irritated at the idea of being underfed and forced to be charming.
I pick up my clutch and glance toward the room service menu on the desk. “We could order something. Like, now. Quick. Room service can bring fries or a sandwich or—”
“No,” Jake says immediately.
I pause. “No?”
He grabs his wallet. “Then we’ll be late and you know your dad will watch us wth his hawk eyes. I’m okay.”
