Page 6 of Checking It Twice
Fake girlfriend. Just for the holidays. Just long enough to show everyone I’m not the broken mess they think I am.
It’s a terrible idea.
Which is probably why I’m already planning exactly how to ask her.
I finish my beer and set the bottle on the table, my mind now racing. Clare has no idea what kind of chaos she’s about to walk into.
Hell, maybe that’s what makes this perfect. She doesn’t know about Hannah, about Luke, about the spectacular way my life imploded six months ago. To her, I’m just another hockey player with a charming smile and a decent forecheck.
I can work with that.
It’s better than the alternative.
Especially if it means not giving everyone back home the show of pity they’re probably expecting.
Not this year.
Chapter Three
The Proposal
Clare
I’m buried in spreadsheets when a shadow falls across my desk. I don’t have to look up to know who it is—Mitchell Drake has this presence that shifts the air, like a storm rolling in.
“Hey, Clare.”
That voice of his—low, rough—does stupid things to my stomach. I keep my eyes on my computer screen, pretending quarterly fan engagement metrics are fascinating.
“Mitchell. Shouldn’t you be doing hockey things? Lifting heavy objects? Grunting at people?”
“Already did my grunting for the day.” He leans against my desk, and I catch that clean soap scent mixed with the scent of his cologne. “Got a minute?”
“Depends. Are you here to complain about next month’s charity event? Because I already told Vivian that ice dancing lessons are non-negotiable.”
“Ice dancing?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you trying to kill us?”
“Only the weak ones.”
He laughs, and the sound does things to my insides that I absolutely do not have time for. When I finally look up, he’s studying me with those storm-gray eyes, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.
“What are your Christmas plans?”
The question catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Christmas. You know, family dinner, presents, the whole Norman Rockwell thing.”
He’s wearing a simple gray henley that stretches across his broad chest in ways that should be illegal, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that are perfect and veiny, and...Whoa, Clare. Get a grip.
There’s something different about his expression today—less of that easy charm he usually wears like armor, more raw around the edges. Like he’s holding something back that’s too big to contain.
I lean back in my chair, suspicious. “Why?”
His eyes do a quick sweep of my face, like he’s cataloging details. “You’re single, right?”
The personal question sends a prickle up my spine. “That’s not really your business.”
“I’m making it my business.” His voice drops, taking on that edge that turns danger into temptation.
