Chapter 11
Eleven
Mac,
Did you really just use the phrase "emotional constipation" in a letter? Maya's influence is rubbing off on you, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Trivia night was... intense. I knew you were competitive, but watching you get genuinely fired up about whether "Pride and Prejudice" counts as enemies-to-lovers (it does, by the way) was something else entirely. You argued literature with me like it mattered, like my opinion had weight.
When we won and you picked me up in that victory hug, I felt the exact moment it stopped being a celebration and started being something else. The way you held me just a beat too long, how your hands lingered on my waist when you set me down. My heart is still recovering
And if I'm truly being honest, I wanted you to kiss me. But I understand why you didn't.
You said good things aren't about deserving them, and maybe you're right. But you're wrong about not deserving happiness, Mac. Whatever guilt you're carrying about Lily, whatever blame you've placed on yourself for surviving when she didn't. That's not your burden to bear alone.
Lily wouldn't want you to stop living because she can't. She'd want you to love fiercely and laugh loudly and find joy in small moments like beating the entire town at trivia with a woman who's miserably failing her own bet and falling for you despite every reasonable objection her brain keeps raising.
Yes, I said it. I'm falling for you. Terrifying as that is.
D.
P.S. - I'm leaving this on your truck because I chickened out on delivering it in person. Some brave romance heroine I am.
Delaney
The morning light filters through the front window of Rosewood Books as I arrange the romance displays, hyperaware of Mac's presence behind the counter.
He's studying my organizational system with the same intensity he probably uses to analyze his opposing team's plays, and I'm trying very hard not to notice how good he looks in the store's cozy lighting.
He hasn't said anything about the embarrassing admission I made in my letter to him, though I'm not surprised. We agreed not to talk about the letters at all. That doesn't stop me from obsessively searching for some indication of how he took it. Is he freaking out like me? Does he care at all?
"So the workplace romance trope…" I begin, handing him a stack of new releases to price. "The theory is that working closely together builds intimacy through shared goals and daily interaction."
"Very scientific." His voice carries that hint of amusement that's become dangerously familiar. "And what exactly am I supposed to be learning here besides your unnecessarily complex shelving system?"
"That system has been perfected over three generations, thank you very much.
" I bump his good shoulder as I reach past him for the pricing gun, pretending the brief contact doesn't send electricity up my arm.
"And you're learning that romance isn't just about grand gestures.
It's about small moments, shared tasks, being a team. "
"Hmm." Mac tests the pricing gun, clicking it experimentally. "So basically, Stockholm syndrome with better lighting?"
I laugh despite myself. "You're impossible."
"That's what my coaches always said. Okay, romance expert," he says, leaning against the counter in a way that shows off his broad shoulders. "What's my first lesson in workplace romance?"
Before I can answer, the bell above the door chimes and Maya walks in with coffee and a suspicious grin.
"Morning, lovebirds. Ready for the circus?"
"What circus?" I accept my usual latte gratefully.
"Oh, you haven't checked social media yet?
" Maya pulls out her phone, scrolling rapidly.
"The video of Mac helping Mrs. Williams carry her groceries yesterday has gone viral.
Something about 'hockey bad boy shows softer side in romance town.
' We've already gotten calls from three news stations, and a lifestyle blogger wants to do a feature on your bet. "
Mac's coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth. "News stations?"
"The good news is everyone loves the redemption angle.
The bad news is..." Maya glances at Mac sympathetically.
"About fifty people drove up from Boston this morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.
They're currently having breakfast at the diner and asking very detailed questions about your daily routine. "
All the color drains from Mac's face. I watch him retreat behind his defensive walls, shoulders tensing like he's preparing for a body check.
"This date was supposed to be low-key," he mutters.
"I know." I touch his arm without thinking, then pull back when he flinches.
"But Mac, this is exactly what the town needs.
Tourism is up thirty percent since news of our bet broke.
The B it's a wonder anything is progressing to begin with.
"We're not talking."
His laugh is barely a breath. "No, we're definitely not talking."
I reach up to touch the scar through his eyebrow, the one I learned is from his first NHL fight. His eyes flutter closed at the contact.
"The people downstairs," I whisper. "They only see the celebrity. The hockey player hiding out from scandal."
"What do you see?"
My thumb traces the line of his cheekbone. "Someone who's been carrying guilt that isn't his to carry. Someone who's forgotten he deserves good things."
"Delaney." This time, my name sounds like a prayer.
"Someone who's been pretending this is all fake when we both know it stopped being fake the night we were snowed in."
His hands come up to frame my face, calloused palms gentle against my skin. "This is a terrible idea."
"Probably."
"I'm not good at this. At letting people close."
I nod once. "I know."
"I'll leave when they let me play again."
"I know that, too."
For a moment, we just stand there, teetering on the edge of something that will change everything. Or maybe everything already has changed. Mac's thumb brushes across my lower lip, and I'm pretty sure my heart actually stops beating.
Then the bell downstairs chimes aggressively, followed by Maya's voice calling my name with obvious urgency.
Mac drops his hands like he's been burned, stepping back so quickly he bumps into the bookshelf.
"Delaney!" Maya calls again. "Channel 5 News is here and they want an interview!"
The spell breaks completely. Mac runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me.
"You should go," he says. "This is what you wanted, right? National attention for the town?"
There's something in his tone that makes my stomach drop. Like he's testing me, waiting for me to choose the publicity over him.
"Mac–"
"Go." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll wait up here until they leave. Wouldn't want to ruin your interview by looking like I'd rather be anywhere else."
I want to argue, to tell him that none of this matters as much as whatever just almost happened between us. But Maya's calling again, and I can hear unfamiliar voices downstairs.
"This isn't over," I tell him, balling my fists.
"Isn't it?"
I'm halfway down the stairs before I realize he might be right. Because as much as I want to help my town, as much as I believe in romance and second chances, I'm falling for someone who's still convinced he doesn't deserve a happy ending.
And I have no idea how to change his mind when he's probably right about me choosing the attention over him.
The interview goes well. I talk about the bet, gush about Mac's transformation, and ramble about Millbrook Falls rising from economic struggle through the power of love stories. It's everything I dreamed of for my town's revival.
But when I get back upstairs an hour later, Mac is gone. There's a note on my kitchen counter in his careful handwriting:
Thanks for hiding me. Good luck with the publicity. See you for the next date. - M
I crumple the note and sink onto my couch, surrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne and the weight of choosing wrong.