Page 80 of Checking It Twice
“High praise from someone who’s probably had plenty of fake girlfriends.”
“Actually, you’re my first.”
The admission slips out before I can stop it, more honest than this conversation was supposed to get. Her eyebrows raise, and I can practically see her filing that information away.
“Really? No desperate attempts to avoid family interrogation before me?”
“Nope. Usually, I just suffer through it and change the subject when things get uncomfortable.”
“What made this time different?”
You. The answer is simple, terrifying, and completely off-limits. Instead, I take a sip of cocoa, buying time.
“Hannah,” I say finally. “The questions were going to be different this year. More pointed. More pitying.”
Something shifts in her expression—softer, more understanding. “That must have been hard. Having everyone know your business.”
“Small towns are like that. Everyone knows everything, and they all have opinions about it.” I run a hand through my hair, surprised by how easy it is to talk to her about this. “The worst part wasn’t even the breakup. It was everyone looking at me like I was some tragic figure who couldn’t keep his woman happy.”
“Is that how you saw it? That you couldn’t keep her happy?”
The question catches me off guard. Because that’s exactly how I saw it for months—like I’d failed at something fundamental, like I wasn’t enough to make someone stay.
“For a while, yeah.”
“And now?”
I consider the question, really consider it. “Now I think we were both settling for something that looked right from the outside but felt wrong on the inside.”
Clare nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”
There’s something in her voice that gives me pause. She’s staring into the fire, her expression distant.
“Yeah? You want to share with the class?”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “His name was Erik. Minor league player, thought he was hot shit because he’d been called up a few times. I was working PR for his team.”
My jaw clenches automatically. I know exactly the type—guys who think being decent at hockey makes them God’s gift to women.
“Let me guess. He was charming, said all the right things, made you feel special until he didn’t.”
“Pretty much.” She takes a long sip of her cocoa. “Except when it ended, somehow it became my fault. I was the PR girl who slept her way through the roster, even though he was the only player I ever dated.”
The casual way she says it makes my chest tight with anger. Not at her—at the asshole who made her feel like caring about someone was something to be ashamed of.
“That’s bullshit.”
“Maybe. But it still happened. And it taught me that mixing business with hockey players was a mistake I wouldn’t make twice.”
She looks at me then, and there’s something pointed in her gaze. A reminder that this—whatever this is—falls squarely into that category.
“Smart policy,” I say, but the words taste like ash.
“I thought so.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unfinished conversations hanging between us. She’s telling me why this can’t be real, why she can’t let it be real. And I should agree with her, should keep my mouth shut and let this die a natural death tomorrow when we get on that plane.
Instead, I find myself getting up, crossing to the couch, settling beside her close enough that our thighs touch.
