Page 49 of Checking It Twice
“She’ll love them,” I say, watching him examine the ornaments with a focus usually reserved for game tape.
“I hope so. She’s been talking about wanting to redecorate the tree this year.”
The simple statement hits harder than it should. Because he listens. He pays attention to the casual comments his mother makes about wanting new ornaments, then remembers weeks later when he’s shopping.
“What about this?” I pick up a small ceramic angel with hand-painted details. “For your grandmother?”
Mitch studies it, then nods. “She’ll cry. In the best way.”
We move through the store collecting small treasures, and I watch him navigate the narrow aisles with the same confident ease he shows on the ice. But there’s something different about him here—gentler, more thoughtful. Less of the professional charm, more of the man who nurses stray cats back to health.
“You’re good at this,” I say as he negotiates with the elderly shop owner about gift wrapping.
“At what?”
“Being considerate. Thinking about what people actually want instead of what’s easy.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. “Hannah used to say I was terrible at gifts.”
The mention of his ex hits like cold water. Because this is what I keep forgetting—that he’s carrying around the wreckage of another relationship, another woman who knew him well enough to catalog his failures.
“She was wrong.”
He looks at me sharply. “How do you know?”
“Because you pay attention. You notice things.” I think about the sunflower coffee mug he remembered, and how random that was. “That’s the most important part of gift-giving. Actually seeing people.”
The shop owner hands him our carefully wrapped packages, and we step back onto the snowy street. But something’s shifted in the air between us, some acknowledgment of the ghosts we’re both carrying.
His hand tightens on mine, and something raw and hopeful flickers across his face.
“Clare—”
“Mitchell Drake! As I live and breathe!”
A woman’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade. We both turn to see a blonde approaching, her determined brightness suggesting she’s had too much coffee and not enough boundaries.
From the way Mitch has gone rigid beside me, I’m guessing this is someone from his complicated past.
She’s pretty in that wholesome, small-town way—apple cheeks, perfect teeth, a woman who probably organized every high school fundraiser and dated the quarterback.
“Jess,” Mitch says, and I catch the slight tension in his voice. “Hey.”
“I cannot believe you’re back in town! And you didn’t call!” She throws her arms around him in a hug that lasts just long enough to make me shift uncomfortably. “We were all wondering when you’d show your face again.”
“Just here for Christmas,” he says, stepping back and sliding his arm around my waist. The gesture feels protective, possessive. “Jess, this is Clare. Clare, this is Jessica Morrison—we went to high school together.”
Jessica’s gaze shifts to me, taking inventory with a thoroughness women often use when sizing up potential rivals. Her smile never wavers, but there’s calculation behind it.
“Clare! How lovely to meet you. And how did you two...?”
“We work together,” I say before Mitch can answer. “In Dallas.”
“Oh, how fun! A workplace romance.” She clasps her hands together like this is the most delightful thing she’s heard all week. “Those can be so complicated, can’t they?”
The comment lands with just enough edge to let me know it wasn’t entirely innocent.
“We’re managing,” Mitch says dryly.
