Chapter 9 #2
"Overwhelming?" He stops pacing and turns to face me.
"Try terrifying. I came here to lay low.
I agreed to the bet to help pass the time more easily.
These people are treating this like it's real.
What happens when they say something to the wrong person and the entire country thinks I'm out here settling down? "
"Would that be so terrible?"
The words slip out before I can stop them, hanging in the air between us like a loaded weapon. But I’m so shocked by the severity of them, I can hardly rein in my emotions.
I can't blame him for his reaction. When I finally cornered Maya in the bookshop a few days ago and forced her to tell me what was going on, I was just as horrified to hear about their betting pools.
But seeing him act this way over the prospect of the world finding out he might actually like me sure does sting.
Mac goes completely still.
"Delaney..."
"Look, I know just as much as you that this is fake. I'm just saying," I rush to explain. "Maybe the reason romance tropes work is because sometimes fake things turn into real things. Maybe that's the whole point."
"The point is that I have a very public reputation to consider. That I don't do real things anymore." His voice is carefully controlled, but I can see the panic creeping into his eyes. "Real things get taken away."
I shove down the insecure thoughts racing through my head, telling me to run away as fast as I can. That he has a reputation to uphold, and I'm only tarnishing it. "Not always."
"Often enough."
We stare at each other in challenge across three feet of space that might as well be an ocean. I want to bridge it, to show him that taking chances on real things is worth the risk, but I can see him rebuilding those walls in real time.
I'm losing him.
If I'm honest, mine are slowly growing, too.
"We should get back," he says finally. "Before they send a search party."
"Mac, wait–"
But he's already walking away, leaving me standing behind the shed with my heart hammering and the terrible realization that somewhere between the coffee shop confrontation and this moment, I've stopped caring about winning our bet.
I've started caring about winning him. But maybe I'm not truly worthy of that prize, after all.
When we emerge, the volunteers barely pretend not to have been speculating about what we were doing back there. Maya appears at my elbow like she's been waiting for exactly this moment.
"How's Operation Make Mac Believe going?" she asks under her breath.
"Complicated," I mutter, watching Mac throw himself into hanging lights with unnecessary aggression.
"Complicated how? Good complicated or bad complicated?"
"The kind of complicated where I think we're both close to ending this."
Maya follows my gaze to where Mac is patiently helping a group of kids hang ornaments on the lower branches of the gazebo's surrounding trees. Despite his earlier panic, he's gentle with them, listening seriously as they debate the optimal placement of each decoration.
"You know," Maya says thoughtfully. "For someone who claims he doesn't believe in love, he's awfully good at showing it."
I bite my lip to stop myself from admitting too much.
Mac might insist he's just going through the motions for our bet, but there's nothing fake about the way he ruffles Jimmy Henderson's hair when the kid gets frustrated with a tangled string of lights.
Nothing performed about how he crouches down to seven-year-old Emma's level to seriously consider her suggestion about adding more silver bells.
"He's different here," I realize out loud. "Away from hockey, away from all that pressure and grief. He's more like..."
"Like the person he used to be?"
"Like the person he could be again."
We work for another three hours, and despite our argument, we fall into an easy rhythm.
The shock of the Millbrook Falls betting pool has subsided—at least for now.
He handles all the high-up work and heavy lifting while I arrange and rearrange everything at eye level until it's perfect.
When we disagree on placement—which happens frequently—our bickering draws an audience of amused townspeople.
"The star goes on top," Mac insists, holding up a large golden star.
"The angel goes on top," I counter, clutching a delicate ceramic angel. "Stars are for trees. Angels are for gazebos. It's gazebo law."
"Gazebo law isn't a real thing."
"It is in Romance Capital of New England, which, in case you've forgotten, is where we currently are."
"Former Romance Capital," he corrects, and I can feel the town collectively wince at that distinction. "And I'm pretty sure gazebo decoration doesn't fall under municipal jurisdiction."
"Are you willing to bet on that?"
Mac pauses, star halfway to the gazebo's peak. "Haven't we made enough bets?"
The question hangs heavy between us, loaded with implication. Our audience of volunteers has grown to include most of the morning shift, all of them watching our debate with the fascination usually reserved for reality TV.
"Tell you what," I say, inspiration striking. "We'll let the town vote. Democratic gazebo decoration."
His eyes linger on mine before he turns toward our audience. "All in favor of the star?" Mac calls out without missing a beat.
About half the hands go up, including most of the men and the practical-minded ladies like Mrs. Henderson.
"All in favor of the angel?" I counter.
The other half raises their hands, mostly the romantic souls and anyone who's been betting on Team Delaney.
"Tie," Mac announces. "Now what, sunshine?"
The nickname sends warmth spiraling through me, especially the way he says it—like it's become natural, unconscious. He's apparently dropped our argument for the moment.
"Now we compromise," I say, struck by sudden inspiration. "Help me up there."
Mac eyes me suspiciously but offers his hands as a boost. I climb carefully onto his shoulders, very aware of his hands on my legs to steady me, and reach for both decorations.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice slightly strained.
"Creating a miracle of Christmas engineering." I wire the angel to the star's base, creating a hybrid decoration that shouldn't work, but somehow does. "There. Angel and star. Everyone wins."
The crowd cheers, and I can't help but grin down at Mac. "See? Compromise. It's like a romance trope in itself."
"Is there anything you can't turn into a romance lesson?"
"Nope. It's a gift."
Mac's hands tighten slightly on my legs, and for a moment, I think he might be about to say something important. But then Mayor Rodriguez appears with a camera, and the moment shatters.
"Perfect! This is exactly the kind of community spirit we need for the promotional materials," the mayor announces. "Mac, Delaney, stay right there. This is going on our website and our Christmas brochure."
"Oh no," I mutter, but it's too late. The camera flashes, capturing me on Mac's shoulders with our hybrid angel-star creation.
"Beautiful!" Mayor Patterson beams. "Nothing says 'Romance Capital' like young love working together for the good of the community."
Mac helps me down, his hands lingering at my waist longer than strictly necessary. "Young love?"
"Don't even think about it," I warn him. "The mayor's been Team Love since day one. He's probably already planning to use that photo for our wedding announcement."
"Wedding announcement," Mac repeats faintly.
I wince. "Relax, Sullivan."
But as we pack up our supplies and accept congratulations from various townspeople on our "perfect teamwork" and "obvious chemistry," I catch Mac watching me with an expression I can't quite read. It's something between wonder and terror, hope and panic.
Whatever it is, it makes my heart race and my palms sweat and every rational thought scatter like leaves in the wind.
"Same place tomorrow?" I ask as we prepare to part ways. I hate the desperation clouding my voice, but I'm starting to question if he'll show up to any more of our dates after today. "Date four is trivia night at The Rusty Anchor. Hope you're ready for some serious intellectual competition."
"Bring it on, sunshine," he says, surprising me. I have whiplash from his sudden change in mood. And there's that nickname again, delivered with a half-smile that makes me want to do something crazy like grab his jacket and kiss him right here in front of everyone.
Instead, I give him a mock salute and head home, very aware of his gaze following me all the way down Main Street.
Three dates down, seven to go. And somewhere between our confrontation and today's gazebo compromise, the line between fake and real has gotten so blurred I'm not sure it exists anymore.
The scary part?
I'm not sure I want it to.
Letter #4: Found in Delaney's mailbox at home
Delaney,
You want to talk about the kiss? Fine. Let's talk about it.
I've been trying to convince myself it was just adrenaline, or proximity, or some kind of romantic experiment gone wrong.
But I can't stop thinking about the way you tasted like hot chocolate and possibility, how you didn't push when I pulled away, even though I could see the hurt flash across your face.
I pulled away because kissing you felt too real. Because for a minute there, I forgot this was supposed to be fake. I suffer from emotional constipation, Delaney. I've got years of backed-up trauma.
You think I'm scared of letting someone close, and you're right. But it's not just about loss, though God knows I've had enough of that. It's about deserving good things. About whether someone who couldn't protect the person who mattered most has any right to reach for happiness again.
But then I watch you with the kids at the festival, see how you light up when you talk about your grandmother's bookshop, observe the way you've made this whole town fall a little bit in love with you, and I think maybe.
.. maybe good things aren't about deserving them.
Maybe they're about being brave enough to accept them when they show up.
You're showing up, Delaney. In ways I didn't expect and definitely don't deserve.
It’s easier for me to write this off as fake than to admit whatever the hell is going on between us. Especially when people are literally betting on us.
I won't run. But I can't promise this will be easy for either of us.
Mac