This was the kind of dread that had history. Muscle memory. Years of expectation packed neatly behind it.
The house looked exactly the same as it always had. Immaculate hedges trimmed into obedience. Perfect green lawn. Windows polished so clean they reflected the late-morning sun like mirrors. Somewhere inside, my mother was probably adjusting place settings that didn’t need adjusting, making sure everything looked effortless. Carefully planned. Correct.
This house had never liked a mess. Or uncertainty. Or me, once I stopped doing exactly what was expected of me.
“Still want to do this?” Ledger asked quietly as we stood in front of the door.
I tightened my grip on his hand. “No.”
He huffed a soft breath. “Same.”
That made me glance over at him, surprised. He was already watching me, expression supportive. Matter-of-fact. Like he’d meant it when he’d said he’d be there. Like this wasn’t an act he planned to drop the second things got uncomfortable.
My fingers curled more deliberately around his. The warmth of his palm seeped into mine, anchoring and unsettling all at once. My pulse slowed, just a little, while every other nerve sparked to life. We’d never held hands before. There’d never been a reason. No rule that required it. No audience that demanded the illusion.
Regardless, standing there with his hand wrapped around mine felt right. Necessary. Like my body had decided before my brain could argue. Like this was exactly where my hand was supposed to be.
His thumb brushed lightly against my knuckle—barely a movement, probably unconscious—but it sent a shiver straight up my arm. Calm and alert. Unceasing and electric. I didn’t know how both could exist at the same time, but somehow they did.
I told myself it was nerves. Adrenaline. Anything but what it actually felt like.
I breathed him in once, rooting myself in that simple contact, and then?—
The front door swung open.
“Roxie!” my mom called, arms opening wide as if she hadn’t been deeply disappointed in me for most of the last decade.
I plastered on a smile. “Hi, Mom.”
She hugged me quickly, her cheek cool against mine, then immediately stepped back and looked me over from head to toe. Her gaze lingered on my dress—nice, but not the kind of designer label she would’ve preferred. Approval didn’t come, but tolerance did.
Then her eyes shifted. To Ledger.
And just like that, the temperature changed.
He wasn’t wearing anything flashy, just a dark polo and well-fitted jeans, but on him, it worked. His dark hair was styled instead of its usual post-practice mess, his posture easy but confident, like he belonged wherever he stood. The fabric of his shirt stretched over his shoulders and chest, muscle evident without him trying at all, and I hated that my eyes lingered. Loathed that my brain filled in the rest just as easily, because I knew exactly what he looked like without it. The clean lines of his torso, the strength earned lap by lap in the pool, every unfairly perfect detail my imagination didnotneed to supply.
And I disliked most of all that the thought came so naturally—the thought that he lookedreallygood.
Not country-club polished. Just solid. Real. Unmistakably Ledger.
The kind of man my parents would never have chosen for me. The kind of man they would never have approved of, no matter how good he was.
“Hello,” she said, polite but clipped. “You must be Ledger.”
Ledger stepped forward easily, extending his hand. “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
She hesitated half a second too long before taking it. Her smile tightened as she shook. “We’ve heard a bit about you.”
I resisted the urge to wince.
My father appeared behind her, coffee mug in hand, eyes sharp and assessing in a way that made me feel twelve years old again. He looked Ledger up and down without bothering to hide it.
“Swimmer,” he said flatly.
Ledger nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And that pays … how, exactly?” my father asked.
