Chapter 13 #2
I take her phone, then she steps in front of me, pressing her back to my front.
Instinctively, I wrap an arm around her, clasping it around her shoulder.
She relaxes against me, lifting her hands to curl them around my arm, and I’m struck with the rightness of how this feels.
I felt the same way the first time we took photos together.
With my free arm, I lift the phone and center us in the frame.
The ring sparkles in the lights of the streetlamp.
I take a couple of photos, then, when Sarah looks up at me, exposing the long line of her neck, I take one more.
She takes the phone and looks through the photos. “Perfect,” she says. “We actually look really good.”
I shoot her a grin as we head toward the entrance of the club. “You could take a photo next to a dumpster and still look amazing.”
She smiles playfully. “I’ll take your word for it because I’m definitely not testing that theory.”
Once inside, we check our coats and find a cozy booth with a round bench seat hugging the wall. The place looks busy, but not so busy that it’s overwhelming. The vibe is chill, making me confident this was a good choice for Sarah. I take a minute to scan the room, looking for anyone I recognize.
To my surprise, the Jaguars general manager, Brady Norcott, is sitting a few tables over with his wife and the Jaguars team owner.
Norcott is traveling with the team, but I hadn’t noticed his wife was with him, though maybe she just met him here.
Pretty sure the team owner lives in New York, so it makes sense they would want to meet while we’re in town.
I make eye contact with Norcott, and he tilts his head up in acknowledgement.
I point them out to Sarah, but I doubt we’ll spend much time talking tonight. I have a good relationship with Norcott. He’s a great GM. But our team owner isn’t very hands-on. I’ve only interacted with him once or twice, and that’s after six seasons with the team.
Even so, it can’t hurt Sarah’s cause to have people from inside the organization see evidence of our relationship. Every person who remembers seeing us together or remembers the night we got engaged makes our case stronger.
“What about the podcast guy?” Sarah asks. “Is he here?”
I take another quick look around the room. “Right there,” I say, pointing at the bar. “Sitting by a couple of Warriors players. That’s Griffin Knox.”
Theo and I have done interviews for Griffin’s podcast, Hockey House, a few times before, and I would say we’re on friendly terms. Enough that it won’t be unusual for me to say hello to him, make sure he knows I’m here.
“Can I get us some drinks?” I ask, and Sarah nods.
“Should we have champagne?” she says. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”
“That we are. I’ll be right back.”
On my way, I stop and shake Norcott’s hand, then say hello to the team owner. I make a point to mention celebrating with my new fiancée, then I excuse myself and head to the bar.
I lean against it right beside Griffin, glancing over at him before giving the bartender my order.
“Well, if it isn’t one of the Williamsons,” Griffin says as soon as he notices me.
I look his way and lift an eyebrow, giving him the chance to determine which Williamson brother I am.
“Carter?” he asks, and I grin.
“Lucky guess.”
“Sorry about the loss tonight, man.” He gives me a good-natured smile. “You played terrible.”
“Yep,” I say. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
“You know I call it like I see it. Your brother killed it.” He looks around. “Is he here?”
“Nah, not tonight,” I say, making eye contact with the man sitting on Griffin’s other side. It’s the Warriors’ team captain, a guy named Markham.
He lifts his drink like he’s toasting me. “Tell Stone I appreciate him fumbling his last shot in the shootout.”
I cock my head to the side. “Still got a point. And that puts us how many ahead of the Warriors?”
“Six,” Griffin answers for me. “And three ahead of the second-place team in your division.”
“Thanks for the stats, Griff,” I say, patting him on the back.
“For now,” Markham says. “We’ll see who chokes in the playoffs.”
I turn my attention back to Griffin.
“So you’re flying solo?” he asks.
The bartender slides over two flutes of champagne.
“I guess not,” Griffin says, answering his own question. He eyes the champagne. “Are you celebrating something?”
“My engagement,” I say, proud of myself for not tripping over the words. “I just proposed tonight.”
“No wonder you were off your game,” Griffin says. “You were playing nervous. Hey, congrats, man. I’m glad she said yes.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, and something turns over in my stomach. I’ve been pretty self-aware going into all this, but the deeper we get, the more I’m starting to wonder if I can handle it. If I can truly keep my feelings sorted.
I say goodbye to Griffin and pick up the champagne, then make my way back to Sarah.
“How did it go?” she asks as I slide into the booth beside her. I move her champagne a little closer, and she lifts it to take a sip. “Did you tell him?”
“I did.”
Sarah scoots a little closer and slides her fingers through my hair just above my ear. Her hand lingers there, brown eyes on mine. I’m surprised by the sudden touch, but I’m not about to complain.
“Is he still watching?” she asks, her voice soft, and a twinge of disappointment pushes through me. I can’t keep forgetting that this is all for show.
I glance toward Griffin. “Yeah. He is.”
She drops her hand back in her lap and bites her lip. “So what’s our play here? Is seeing us enough? Or should we leave no room for doubt?”
If I had any sense of self-preservation, I would retreat. Instead, I lean in closer. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m actually not one who’s big into public displays of affection. But considering the circumstances, and since we have an audience…” Her eyes drop to my lips, and I smile playfully.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Sarah?”
“I mean, no,” she says with a scoff. “Of course not. I’m just saying it might be helpful in our present situation. It would have to be natural. Chill. Like we’ve done it a thousand times.”
I let out a little chuckle. “That’s a high bar. Asking me to kiss you for the first time…and be chill about it.”
“Right,” she says, like she genuinely thinks I’m joking. “Because I’m honestly so intimidating.”
“Clearly you don’t see yourself the way I see you. Kissing someone as beautiful as you will always be a big deal no matter how many times it happens.”
Her eyes drop to her lap, and she breathes out a laugh as she shakes her head. “I think you’re just saying that. Like I’m one of your youth hockey players who’s skating with heart.”
Suddenly, it doesn’t matter if we’re pretending. I just want Sarah to believe she really is that beautiful. That she has no reason to doubt herself. “That’s not what this is,” I say. “Some things are just objectively true. You are beautiful, Sarah.”
She holds my gaze, and I can tell she’s fighting, like she just doesn’t want to accept the words as true.
“I can tell you want to deflect,” I say. “Don’t do it.”
She presses her lips together like she’s fighting a smile.
“It’s just easy to say that when I’m all dressed up.
But you haven’t seen me at my worst.” She lifts her arms and wraps them around my neck, her fingers brushing against my hairline.
“Bedhead. Giant glasses. The imprint of the book I fell asleep reading smooshed into my cheek.”
I shift a hand to her hip and tug her a little closer. “Is that something that happens a lot?”
“More than I’m proud to admit,” she says.
“I doubt it makes a difference. And I like your glasses. The green ones, especially.”
Her eyes light up. “Those are my favorites.”
I pick up her champagne and hand it to her, then grab my own glass.
“Are we making a toast?” she asks, and I nod.
“We are,” I say. “And then I’m going to kiss you like I’ve done it a thousand times.”
“Like kissing is old news,” she says.
“Totally boring,” I add.
She clinks her glass to mine. “To our exceptional acting skills,” she says.
We both take a drink of champagne, then we set down our glasses.
Reminding myself not to hesitate, I gather my courage, lift my hands to cradle her face, then press my mouth to hers.
As soon as our lips make contact, it’s all I can do not to forget the plan and pull her all the way into my arms. Her lips are warm and soft, and she tastes faintly of champagne, and I’m…flying.
The kiss is supposed to be familiar, so I fight to keep it simple, like something we’ve done countless times, but it’s taking all my willpower to do so when what I want is to deepen the kiss, taste her, explore her mouth.
Her hands lift to my chest, gripping my shirt as she tugs me closer.
It doesn’t feel like she’s pretending—it feels like she’s hungry.
And I want to be the one who gives her everything she needs.
Sarah lets out a soft moan, and my desire sharpens just enough to remind me that we should stop. Here is not the place and now is not the time.
I pull back, and Sarah’s eyes flutter open. My thumb brushes over the corner of her mouth, tugging at her bottom lip, and she sucks in a breath. “You look a little stunned for our one-thousandth kiss.”
She blinks slowly, and I try to read her expression. She had to have felt the same thing I did. But then she gives her head a little shake.
“One thousand and one,” she corrects. She glances toward the bar. “And…mission accomplished. Pretty sure podcast guy saw the whole thing.”
I swallow my disappointment.
Right. Mission accomplished.
The rest of the night passes by in a blur.
Griffin comes over to meet Sarah and buys us another round of champagne to congratulate us on our engagement.
And Brady Norcott stops by on his way out so his wife can tell Sarah that after meeting Anna at a team event last summer, she’s been following Sarah on Instagram and loves her art.
Sarah is flattered and clearly overwhelmed by the attention, but she’s gracious and kind and even agrees to take a photo with the woman.
“Did that even just happen?” she whispers to me after the couple leaves. “You’re the famous one. People aren’t supposed to recognize me.”
For my part, I’ve had just enough champagne to soften the edges of my defenses. To let myself fully enjoy holding Sarah’s hand or keeping an arm around her shoulder. Pressing a kiss to her temple whenever she leans close.
But not so much champagne that I’ve forgotten that all of this is temporary. I can touch her, treat her like she belongs to me because we have an audience. Something to prove.
But for how long?
It’s jarring to be with her, to feel like this thing between us is real, but then keep getting reminders that it’s not. That maybe my feelings aren’t reciprocated and she’s just really good at pretending.
Sarah reaches over and pats my knee. “We should go,” she says. “You have to leave early tomorrow.”
I nod. “Okay. Have you had fun?”
She smiles. “Yeah. I really have.”
We get our coats, and I send a quick text to our driver, letting him know we’re ready to leave. But I’m hesitant to let Sarah go. To say goodbye when I won’t see her again for almost another week.
“Is your hotel far?” she asks, and I shake my head no.
“Just a few blocks.”
She seems to consider this information, then she looks up at me and asks, “Can we just go there?”
I lift my eyebrows. “You don’t want to go back to Soho?”
“There’s actually something I was hoping we could talk about. I know it’s late, but we’re together, and I think it’ll be easier in-person.”
I can’t begin to guess what she wants to talk about, and I’m suddenly nervous. Did I cross a line? Somehow make her uncomfortable?
“Hey,” she says, stepping closer and lifting a hand to pat my chest. “You’re not in trouble. I promise. It’s truly not a big deal—just something that’s been on my mind.”
I nod. “Okay. Do you want me to come to your place? As late as it is, that would be easier. Then you’ll already be home safe.”
“My place is frigid,” she says. “The heat doesn’t work very well. It’s fine if I’m in bed buried under blankets, but…”
“Hotel it is,” I say. “But since it’s so late, will you stay until morning? I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“You don’t have to promise me that,” she says as our driver pulls up. “I know you will.”