Page 35 of Checking It Twice
“Oh, you are very dangerous,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse skip.
The air between us charges, loaded with the same tension that’s been building all weekend. That awareness that we’re playing with fire, that every casual touch and shared laugh is blurring the lines we’re supposed to maintain.
He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “Remind me never to ask you to help with anything actually dangerous.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Defusing bombs. Performing surgery. Parallel parking.”
I snort. “I’m an excellent parallel parker.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am! I’ve only hit one other car.”
“Only one?”
“It was a very small dent.”
“How small?”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger, pinched close together. “Tiny. Practically invisible.”
“And what did the owner of the other car say about this invisible dent?”
“He was... less appreciative of its subtlety than I was.”
Mitch throws back his head and laughs, and the sound does dangerous things to my composure. I love making him laugh like that—completely unguarded, genuinely amused. It’s addictive, this easy banter, the way conversation flows between us without effort or calculation.
“You’re trouble,” he says, settling deeper into the couch. His arm comes up along the back of the sofa, not quite touching my shoulders but close enough that I’m aware of the heat radiating from his skin.
“So you keep telling me.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
I steal a glance at his profile in the firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curls slightly at his temple, the lazy contentment in his expression. He looks relaxed in a way I rarely see at the arena, where he’s always performing some version of professional charm.
This Mitch, the one who steals marshmallows and argues about sledding technique, feels real in a way that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing important.”
“Liar.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I was thinking that you’re different here.”
“Different how?”
“Less...” I search for the right word. “Less careful. More like yourself.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. “Is that good or bad?”
“Good,” I say softly and mean it. “Definitely good.”
The admission hangs between us, loaded with more honesty than our fake relationship probably deserves. But sitting here in the warm glow of the fire, wrapped in his family’s easy acceptance, I can’t bring myself to care about professional boundaries or the wisdom of getting emotionally invested in something temporary.
“Clare—”
