Chapter Twenty-Three #2
I glance down at myself, suddenly glad that Kourtney forced me to try on the heels. They’re easier to walk in than I thought, considering I’m at least three inches higher than usual, and my go-to shoe choices are flat and hazard-free.
Well, usually. Mom used to say I could trip over painted lines, and she wasn’t wrong. I’d get scrapes and bruises just from walking. Once, I fell up the stairs. The only good thing that came from that was knocking a baby tooth out of my mouth and getting five dollars from the Tooth Fairy.
I rub my arm as I stand a healthy distance away from the crowd gathering at the front entrance of the building.
Janel was supposed to be here, but she couldn’t make it because of some other family event she had tonight.
I’m a little sad about not having an ally here and wish I’d told Kourtney she could come when she begged me to be my plus one.
I’m not even sure I’m allowed one, which is inevitably why I told her I should go alone.
Now I find myself uncomfortable because I can’t tell if I’m too dolled up or too dressed down.
There are varying degrees of outfits as people pour out of cars and walk the carpet, getting photographed by two men at the top of the stairs.
One of them we hired to ensure that Thomas and his teammates would get captured for news outlets and their own social media, and the other must have been hired by the association for their own use.
“There he is,” I hear someone say excitedly from a few cars down. A man opens the back door of a black Escalade with tinted windows, and I see someone vaguely familiar step out.
“Mr. Clarkson,” a white-haired man greets, holding out his hand for the man in a tailored suit to shake. “We’re glad you joined us. I’m Charles Westwood, head of the Historical Association.”
I realize after a few seconds of their pleasant conversation that this is the captain of the Fairbanks Fireflies. Which means—
“Thomas Moskins!” a little boy yells out, trying to jump past the rope someone stretched along the staircase to keep locals away from the partygoers. “Can you sign my jersey?”
My eyes instantly find the tall, broad man stepping out of the Escalade after his captain, and I swear my heart flutters for a second like I’m a teenager staring at her first crush.
He looks…different. Good. No, great. If men could be beautiful, I’d even label him that.
But the man standing in front of the crowd of people wearing a charcoal gray suit and crisp white shirt underneath isn’t the same one I’ve spent the last few weeks with.
This is Thomas Moskins, the hockey star, not the book-loving human being.
This version of him takes up space and makes the air buzz around him.
This version dominates the conversations simply by existing, drawing attention from everybody nearby.
People stare at him, not in judgment from all the things that led him to be front-page news, but in awe.
They’re mesmerized by this larger-than-life figure.
I watch as he walks over to the boy beaming up at him with a marker in his hand. I’m not sure what he says to the young fan, but the boy’s smile grows three times bigger as Thomas bends down, writes on his shirt, and then gives the kid a high-five.
It’s sweet watching him interact with his fans. His softness toward them, especially the children, is another unexpected part of him that I’ve become rather fond of. It isn’t like the closed-off version who masks how he’s feeling when he’s around everybody else.
I find myself walking toward him without thinking, so I force myself to stop and observe from my carefully chosen spot out of the way of the action. I’m here to make sure he shows up and behaves. That’s all.
He’s the one who’s been avoiding me. He’s the one who took my secrets and disappeared with them like they meant nothing.
Calm down, I tell my racing heart.
It doesn’t, the traitorous bitch.
Thomas and Jesse Clarkson do that weird bro handshake hug thing and talk to a few of the spectators. All fans, I realize. I’m not surprised. The Historical Association has been heavily promoting its guest list for the past week, hoping people would come and donate to the cause.
As if he can sense me, Thomas lifts his head and finds me within seconds. In hindsight, he can be looking at an array of people near me. There are men I’m sure he’d benefit from rubbing elbows with, and women who definitely fit his type better than I do.
Yet, I know he isn’t paying them one ounce of attention. Not like he should be. And as if he wants to make that very clear, he comes walking over.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
My heart has a mind of its own, reacting despite my best efforts to squash its anticipation.
Thomas doesn’t walk over to the beautiful redhead in a tight black dress and heels that make her legs look long and slender.
He doesn’t go to the man with a fancy watch on his wrist that he’s looked at no more than three times in the past twenty minutes solely so people can see the little Rolex label in the watch face.
He ignores them completely, coming to a stop mere inches from me in a borrowed dress and shoes with cheap makeup and jewelry on. I don’t have to crane my neck nearly as much thanks to my shoes, which he notices.
“You look…” His throat bobs as he swallows with a shake of his head. “You look beautiful, Winter.”
Winter.
Not kid.
Not princess.
Not sweetheart.
My hands nervously flatten down the front of my dress. “It was my mother’s,” I tell him quietly, staring down at my outfit. “My sister lent it to me for the night, so I’d have something nice to wear.”
When I peek up at him, his eyes are running over the length of my body. He clears his throat and lifts his gaze back up, narrowing on my face.
“You dyed your hair.”
Absentmindedly, I touch the curls that sit loose past my shoulders. “It made sense. Have you seen anyone with pink hair here?”
He frowns at my question. “Who cares? If you like the pink, that’s all that matters.” He pauses, reaching out as if he wants to touch my hair before remembering better. When he lowers his hand, his jaw tics. “I liked the pink.”
A familiar heat rises up my neck and settles into my cheeks. “It’ll be back. Or maybe I’ll do purple. I haven’t decided yet.”
His eyes roam over my face. “Purple would look nice.”
We stare at one another for a moment that seems far too long before I take a step back and gesture toward City Hall.
“You should go in. The schedule has you meeting a few VIP guests in about thirty minutes. Then I’ll make sure the photographers get pictures of you with your team. Are the others here yet?”
Working is the only way I can calm my mind and my heart down. It distracts me from the annoying buzz that I feel every inch of me that his eyes go, like he’s physically touching me.
“Winter,” he says quietly, trying to earn my attention back.
But I can’t.
If I look at him for too long, it will hurt.
The truth.
That he isn’t mine.
That I can’t have him.
That this is all temporary.
An infatuation and nothing more.
“You should go in,” I repeat, voice a fraction weaker than before. “You don’t want to be late.”
I can feel him staring at me.
His body all but radiates warmth and want, and it’s a dangerous combination because my soul is cold and needs the heat.
Thomas lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “I’m sorry for not texting you back. I wanted to, but I thought it would be better if I figured some things out first.”
Better for whom? For him? For me? For Emaly? For his career? It’s probably all accurate. I’m the last person he needs to concern himself with. After all, we’ve established that I’m not his responsibility. He doesn’t owe me a thing, not even an apology.
“It’s fine,” I tell him as earnestly as possible. I turn away from him to see a few people looking at us with interest. Too much interest. One of them being his teammate, Jesse Clarkson. “People are watching.”
It’s the only warning I give him before plastering a big smile on my face.
The one I use in all my meetings with clients, no matter how much I dread some of them.
The one I paint on there that’s faker than the pink-dyed tips that used to be in my hair, but gets me along based on professionalism alone.
Thomas’s eyes go to my nails. “They’re not bright,” he notes, almost sadly, when he sees the boring beige color I painted on them.
My eyes go down to my hands that feel naked, stripped of the neon or pastel colors usually painted on the nails. “I’m trying to be more professional.”
He shakes his head. “You should just be you, sweetheart.”
My heart finds its way to my throat hearing that name. I used to hate it. But now…not so much. And I hate how that makes me feel.
“And who are you, Thomas?” I question. “Is it this version or the one you pretend to be around people so they don’t ask questions?”
He swallows, but doesn’t answer.
Because he knows he’s a hypocrite.
Jesse Clarkson walks over to us and dips his head, offering me a civil smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but we should get going.”
Before Thomas can interject, I nod. “I was just telling him that. You two go in. I think I saw Richard Head go in about ten minutes ago, so I’m sure he’s looking for you. I’ll be up soon. I have a few things to organize.”
It’s a lie. Everything is already set, but I need some air before suffocating myself in his presence again.
Thomas doesn’t introduce me to his teammate, and I don’t bother doing it either. I don’t want to. I don’t have the energy.
Eventually, Thomas relents and shakes hands with at least twelve different people as he makes his way up the stairs. He gets his picture taken, plasters an even faker smile on his face than the one on mine, and doesn’t look back.
I’m glad.
Especially when someone comes up to me a few minutes after he disappears and says, “If you look anymore obvious, dear, you’re going to give yourself away.”
I don’t recognize the accent, nor do I know the large man standing beside me. He’s older. Gray hair, aged face. There’s a tightness to his smile that seems beady and calculated.
“You should have known better than to get yourself involved with a man like that, Ms. Bronte. Or would you prefer I call you Winter?”
How does he know my name? I stand taller, my guard up, and internal alarm bells going off.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” is the only reply I can come up with.
He huffs out laughter and holds out his hand to me. “My apologies. I’m Mikhail Yokav. And I believe you know my son-in-law based on the pictures I’ve seen.”
Everything in me stills.
“Pictures?” I repeat.
He hums, a secretive smile on his face. “I think we need to talk, Ms. Bronte.”