Page 79 of Checking It Twice
But it’s not fine. I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the way she’s rebuilt those careful walls. Her family doesn’t deserve her. They don’t appreciate what they have.
“My family loves you,” I say instead.
“I know.” Her smile is small but genuine. “That’s the problem.”
“How is that a problem?”
She stops walking and turns to face me, something vulnerable in her expression. “Because it makes me want things I can’t have.”
The admission hits like a physical blow. Because I know exactly what she means. This weekend has been about wanting things that feel impossible, about forgetting all the reasons why we’re supposed to keep our distance.
“Clare—”
“We should go in,” she says quickly. “Before we freeze to death out here.”
But as we head back toward the warm lights of the house, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not talking about the cold.
She’s talking about us. About the distance she’s already putting back in place, the walls she’s rebuilding to protect herself from wanting something that might not last.
The problem is, I’m not sure I want to let her.
But maybe I should. Because wanting her and being ready for her?
Two different things.
And I’d be a real asshole to mess with her head just because she makes me forget Hannah ever existed.
I’m over my ex—I know that much. Hannah was safe. Easy. This thing with Clare burns different. Hotter.
But being over one woman doesn’t mean I’m ready for another one. And Clare’s already been hurt. I can see it in the careful way she holds herself, the way she expects people to leave. Her family has hurt her enough.
She doesn’t need me figuring my shit out on her time.
The problem is, I’m not sure I can stay away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Playing with Fire
Mitchell
The house has finally gone quiet. Kids asleep, parents settled in their room, the excitement of Christmas Day officially over. Clare and I ended up in the den somehow—her curled into one corner of the old leather couch, me sprawled in the chair by the fireplace, both of us nursing mugs of Mom’s famous hot cocoa spiked with RumChata.
The fire crackles between us, casting shadows that make everything feel more intimate than it should. More dangerous.
“So,” Clare says, breaking the comfortable silence, “how do you think I did? With the whole fake girlfriend thing?”
There’s something playful in her voice, but underneath it, I catch a note of genuine curiosity. Like my opinion actually matters to her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, studying her in the firelight. “I think you’re doing pretty well for a first-timer,” I say, dropping my voice to barely above a whisper.
She goes very still, her mug suspended halfway to her lips. “Just pretty well?”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Clare Bear. It’s not a good look on you.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “I’m not fishing. I’m conducting a performance review.”
“In that case, you exceeded expectations.”
