Chapter 13 #2
She's right. I am absolutely going to kiss her, consequences be damned. The bet, the fake dating, the complicated mess of our situation—none of it matters as much as the way she's looking at me right now. Like I'm something worth fighting for.
I lean down, my heart hammering in my chest as her eyes flutter closed. This feels different than the cabin. It isn’t private. It can’t be written off as a lapse in judgment. As a side effect of forced proximity.
This is public. It’s dangerous.
And still, I do it. I capture her lips in a kiss that sends chills down my spine, and she melts into me, picking up right where we left off. As if we never stopped. As if all my wavering and questioning hasn’t happened.
And then the side door bangs open.
"Delaney! Mac!" Carol's voice cuts through the night air like a knife. "Dinner's ready!"
The door slams back shut, but the moment is ruined.
We spring apart like teenagers caught making out, and I have to bite back a laugh at the frustrated expression on Delaney's face.
"Saved by the turkey," I murmur.
"More like doomed by the turkey," she mutters back, but she's smiling as she straightens her sweater and leads me back inside.
Dinner is a production that involves three large tables sprawled across the dining room and family room, enough food to feed a small army, and the kind of organized chaos that only large families can pull off.
I end up seated directly across from Brad, with Delaney beside me and her various aunts, uncles, and cousins filling out the rest of the table.
The conversation flows around topics both safe and dangerous—the weather, local politics, childhood embarrassments, and pointed questions about my "relationship" with Delaney that I navigate with what I hope is the right mixture of affection and privacy.
Brad, for his part, seems determined to remind everyone of his shared history with Delaney and his successful life in New York. Every story he tells is designed to highlight either his achievements or their past together, and I find myself getting more irritated with each passing minute.
"Remember when we drove up to Vermont for that bed and breakfast weekend?" he says during a lull in conversation, smiling at Delaney with practiced intimacy. "That little place with the incredible view of the mountains?"
Delaney's fork pauses halfway to her mouth, and I can see the discomfort in the set of her shoulders.
"Sure. That was a long time ago, Brad," she says diplomatically.
"The best weekend of my life," he continues, apparently immune to social cues. "I still have pictures somewhere."
"Funny," I say conversationally, setting down my fork. "Delaney told me she's never really enjoyed bed and breakfasts. Something about preferring spontaneous adventures to planned romantic getaways."
It's a complete lie, but it hits its target. Brad's smile falters, and Delaney shoots me a look that's part gratitude, part warning.
"People change," Brad says stiffly.
"They do," I agree. "Sometimes they grow up and realize what they really want. Sometimes they discover they were settling before."
"Mac," Delaney says quietly, her hand finding mine under the table.
The touch grounds me, reminds me that this isn't about competing with her ex. This is about her, about the way she deserves to be treated, about the life she's building here that Brad apparently thinks she should abandon for him.
"Sorry," I say, though I'm not particularly sorry. "I just get protective of the people I care about when they're too polite to defend themselves."
The words hang in the air, more honest than I intended them to be. Delaney's fingers tighten around mine, and when I look at her, there's something soft and wondering in her expression.
Brad scoffs. “She doesn't have to defend herself against–”
He's cut off by one of Delaney's aunts—Janet, I think.
"That's sweet," she says, ignoring Brad's glare. "Young love is so passionate."
"We're not–" Delaney starts, then stops, her cheeks flushing.
"Not what?" Carol asks with the kind of maternal interest that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men everywhere.
"Not rushing into anything," I finish smoothly. "We're taking things at our own pace."
It's the right answer, apparently, because Carol nods approvingly and the conversation mercifully moves on to safer topics.
But under the table, Delaney's hand stays in mine, her thumb tracing patterns across my knuckles that make it impossible to focus on anything else. Every casual touch, every shared glance, every moment when she leans closer to whisper something in my ear feels charged with possibility.
By the time dessert is served—three different kinds of pie, because apparently the Caldwells don't believe in moderation—I've almost forgotten this started as a fake date. Almost forgotten that we're supposed to be pretending to care about each other.
The problem is, I'm not pretending anymore. And from the way Delaney keeps looking at me, neither is she.
Letter #7: Slipped under Mac's cabin door late at night
Mac,
I needed to write this tonight, while my emotions are still raw and honest instead of polished by morning light.
Seeing Brad again was like looking at an old photograph of someone you used to be. He represents safe choices and predictable love, the kind of relationship that makes sense on paper but never quite fits right in real life.
But watching you with him? The way your jaw ticked every time he suggested I was wasting my potential in a small town, the way he always does? The protective edge in your voice when you told him he was wrong about me? That was something else entirely.
God, I wish you knew exactly what that did to me.
You didn't have to defend me, Mac. This is supposed to be fake, remember? But the way you stood closer when Brad got condescending, how you made sure everyone knew exactly where your loyalties lay—that felt real. Dangerously, beautifully real.
Brad offered me everything I thought I wanted once upon a time. Stability, city life, a love that doesn't require risk or growth or the terrifying possibility of loss.
But here's what I realized tonight: I don't want safe anymore. I want the kind of love that challenges me, that sees all my dreams as worthy instead of just acceptable. I want someone who thinks my small town romance bookshop is magnificent, not just a cute phase I'll eventually outgrow.
I want you, Mac. Complicated, damaged, beautiful you.
Even if it terrifies me.
Always yours, D.