Chapter 17
Piper
The morning after accidentally confessing your feelings while pretending they don't exist is a special kind of hell.
I'm making coffee in my kitchenette like a completely normal person who definitely didn't spend half the night replaying every word Ryder said by the fireplace.
My hands are steady. My brain is focused.
I am a professional influencer who has survived public humiliation and can absolutely handle meeting her fake boyfriend's sister without combusting.
"You're alphabetizing the coffee pods," Ryder says from the doorway.
I drop the pod I'm holding. "No, I'm not."
"You've arranged them from darkest roast to lightest." He leans against the doorframe in worn jeans and a Fire Department hoodie, looking unfairly good for someone who also probably didn't sleep. "Sage isn't going to judge your coffee organization system."
"I'm not worried about Sage judging me." I grab a random pod and jam it into the machine with more force than necessary. "I'm just... preparing."
"For what? An inspection?"
"For meeting your sister who's going to see right through me in about thirty seconds." The words tumble out fast enough that I barely register saying them.
Ryder crosses to me in two strides. His hand settles on my lower back, warm through my sweater. "Sage is going to love you."
"You don't know that."
"She already loves you. She's been texting me since the viral video went live." He pulls out his phone and shows me a message from last night:
Sage: She's perfect for you, you emotionally constipated moose. Don't screw this up.
A laugh escapes me. "Emotionally constipated moose?"
"She has a way with words." He tucks his phone away, his hand still on my back. "Just be yourself. That's all you need to do."
Right. Be myself. The woman who's caught between a fake relationship that feels increasingly genuine and the terrifying realization that she might actually want this. Simple.
I pull out my phone and text the group chat.
Me: Sage lands at noon. I'm alphabetizing coffee pods. Send help.
Tessa: How are you not freaking out right now?
Patrice: She IS freaking out. Look at the time stamp on her Instagram story. 6 AM gym selfie = panic.
Me: I'm not panicking. I'm hydrating and getting my steps in.
Tessa: You never get your steps in.
Patrice: Meeting the family is a BIG DEAL. This is getting serious.
Me: We're just dating.
Tessa: Dating people who stare at each other like that after winning goals.
Patrice: Friends who have enough sexual tension to power the entire town.
I shove my phone in my pocket as Ryder watches me with obvious amusement. "Everything okay?"
"Tessa and Patrice are being supportive."
"That bad?"
"They're reminding me I have... visible feelings."
His thumb traces a circle on my back. "Would that be so terrible?"
Gravel crunches in the driveway before I have to answer.
A blue SUV pulls up, and a woman who's clearly a Lockwood jumps out before the engine fully stops—same dark hair, same sharp features, same way of moving like the world needs to keep up with her.
She's a whirlwind in fleece-lined pants and an oversized flannel, hair pulled into a messy bun.
She's got three inches on me, a megawatt smile, and the kind of energy that probably makes small children and puppies spontaneously combust with joy.
Ryder opens the door before she can knock, and she launches herself at him. "Ryder James Lockwood! You grew a beard and didn't warn me!"
"Good to see you too, Sage." He catches her in a hug that lifts her off her feet.
"You look good. Too good. It's suspicious." She pulls back, studying him with the kind of scrutiny only siblings can manage. "You're sleeping. Actually sleeping. What kind of witchcraft is this?"
"I've been getting more rest."
"Lies. You've been the world's worst insomniac since Dad died." She turns to me, and I barely have time to brace before she's hugging me too. "You must be the miracle worker. Hi! I'm Sage. You're even prettier in person, and your skincare routine is incredible."
"Um, thank you?" I manage, caught in her embrace.
"We're going to be best friends. I've decided." She releases me but keeps her hands on my shoulders. "Fair warning: I'm nosy, I ask inappropriate questions, and I will absolutely tell you embarrassing stories about Ryder."
"I'm actually very interested in those stories," I say.
Ryder groans. "Sage, no."
"Sage, yes." She links her arm through mine like we've known each other for years. "Let's go somewhere with caffeine and pastries. I drove straight through from Anchorage and I'm running on gas station coffee and determination."
"The Ashwood Café?" I suggest.
"Perfect. Ryder, you're not invited. This is girl time."
"I live here," he protests.
"And yet, you're not invited." She's already steering me toward the door. "We'll be back in an hour. Maybe two. Depends on how many stories I have to tell."
Ryder catches my eye over Sage's head. Something that might be amusement flickers across his face, or maybe resignation. I mouth help me at him.
He grins and mouths back, good luck.
The Ashwood Café smells like cinnamon and fresh-brewed coffee, the morning rush tapering off to leave scattered locals nursing their cups. Dotty spots us immediately and waves us toward a corner booth.
"Well, well. If it isn't Sage Lockwood!" Dotty appears with coffee before we even sit down. "Last time I saw you, you were stealing pie from the cooling racks."
"That was one time, Miss Dotty. And I was twelve." Sage slides into the booth across from me. "Also, that pie was incredible and worth the lecture I got from Dad."
Dotty's whole face changes. The lines around her eyes soften, and she pats Sage's shoulder with one weathered hand. "Your daddy did love his pie. Especially the berry crumble." She clears her throat. "Good to have you home, honey. What can I get you girls?"
"Two of whatever Piper usually gets," Sage says. "And maybe some of that pie if you have any left."
"Coming right up."
Dotty's already at the next table before Sage leans forward with her elbows on the scarred wood. "Okay. Ground rules. I'm going to ask you personal questions because that's who I am. You can tell me to mind my business anytime. I won't be offended."
"Okay," I say slowly.
"How's my brother treating you? Scale of one to ten, with one being 'total disaster' and ten being 'actually functioning like a human.'"
"Um. Eleven?"
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Eleven? Ryder 'I communicate exclusively through grunts and hockey' Lockwood is at an eleven?"
"He's been... really great, actually." I fiddle with my coffee mug, tracing the chip in the rim. "Thoughtful. Funny. Kind."
"Huh." She sits back, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting equation. "You know what? I believe you. He looks different."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Less like he's carrying the weight of the entire universe on his stupidly broad shoulders." She takes a long sip of coffee. "He hasn't looked this happy since before Dad died. It's good to see."
I press my thumb into the table's wood grain, finding the grooves worn smooth by years of use.
She thinks this is real. She thinks I'm the reason Ryder's healing, and maybe part of it is real, but it started as a lie and somewhere along the way the lines blurred and now I'm sitting here accepting credit for something that might evaporate the second we stop pretending.
"Sage—"
"Oh, here's a good story." She interrupts, pulling out her phone. "Did Ryder tell you he cried during The Notebook?"
"He did not."
"Oh, it gets better. He was seventeen. Made me promise never to tell anyone.
Took me to see it because his girlfriend wanted to go and he needed backup in case it was terrible.
" She's grinning now. "Ten minutes in, she's texting her friends.
Twenty minutes in, she's asleep. Ryder? Full-on tears during the rainy kiss scene. "
I'm laughing before I can stop myself. "No."
"Yes. And then, when Rachel McAdams is old and dying, he had to leave the theater." She clutches her chest dramatically. "Said he had use the bathroom. Came back five minutes later with red eyes and a Slurpee."
"That's actually really sweet."
"He's a secret romantic. Don't let the grumpy hockey player exterior fool you." She pauses as Dotty delivers two plates of blueberry pancakes and actual pie. The blueberries are still warm, steam rising from the golden crust. "He also wrote letters to Dad when he was a kid."
"Letters?"
"Dad worked long shifts at the fire station.
Ryder hated it. Used to write these letters about his day and leave them in Dad's gear locker.
" Her voice goes softer. "Dad kept every single one.
After he died, we found them in a box in his office.
Everything from Ryder's terrible spelling tests to his goals for hockey season to this one letter about being scared of the dark. "
"How old was he?"
"Twelve. Way too old to admit being scared of the dark, but he told Dad everything.
" She stabs at her pancake. "After Dad died, Ryder stopped writing things down.
Stopped talking about feelings. Just buried himself in hockey and firefighting like if he worked hard enough, he could outrun the grief or bring Dad back. "
"He's trying," I say quietly. "To deal with it. He's just been doing it alone for too long."
Sage reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "That's where you come in."
"Sage—"
"Listen." She leans in, her expression turning serious. "Ryder is the best person I know. He's also a self-sabotaging disaster who will absolutely ruin the best thing that ever happened to him if you let him."
"What do you mean?"