Chapter 8 #2
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. “I was going to say genuine.”
His brows furrow even though he’s still grinning. “Thanks,” he says simply. “You make it easy.”
“I make nothing easy,” I scoff.
“That's part of your charm,” he tells me, and I can tell he means it. “If you were easy, I wouldn’t still be trying this hard.”
As we drive into my neighborhood, Scotty gestures ahead. “Wait, isn't that the football frat house?”
“Yeah. It’s my roommate, Lyss’s, grandmother’s house. She’s friends with them, but I try to stay out of the drama…even if I end up dragged into a prank or two. Aiden Matthews, the quarterback, is relentless. He’s already chased away two other roommates.”
“What did he do?”
“To the roommates? No idea. But I do know that one night I got home late from a show and discovered about twenty fake spiders waiting for me in my bed. So that was fun.”
“Aiden went into your bedroom?” His voice sharpens, and I see the tension in his jaw.
I roll my eyes and wave him off. “Eh. He was probably looking for Lyss. They’ve got this cat-and-mouse thing going on.”
“Kind of like us.”
“Nothing like us. You’re more like a lost golden retriever puppy begging for attention.”
He laughs. “And you’re the black cat pretending you don’t want me rubbing up against your ankles.”
I raise my brow, looking away pointedly. “Believe me, if I were a black cat, I’d have my claws out the second a dog came near my ankles.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Princess.”
“I'll do a lot more than that if you keep calling me Princess.” But there's no heat behind my words, and we both know it.
My hand rests against the door handle, but I don’t open it yet. I don’t know if I want to. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For the ride.”
“No. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to redeem myself,” he replies, equally soft. “Even if I’ve got a lot more to go.”
“Walk me to my door.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
What the hell am I doing?
His face lights up. “As you wish.”
He's out of the truck and around to my side before I can process what I just asked. He holds out his hands, and when I lean forward to take them, his palms slide to my waist and he’s lifting me effortlessly, carrying me straight to the sidewalk.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want your dress getting wet in the puddle.”
He settles me down gently, and sure enough, there’s a puddle right where my feet would’ve landed.
He grabs my bag, rests his hand on the small of my back, and guides me toward Lyss’s rickety porch.
With every step, I become more aware of him.
Of his presence. Of the fact that I asked him to walk me to my door like this is some kind of date.
It's not a date, I tell myself firmly.
He just gave me a ride. That's all.
When we reach the front door, and I turn to face him, I can’t honestly say to myself that it was just a ride. Not when every single part of me feels seen.
“Thanks again,” I say. My voice comes out softer than I mean it to, almost wistful, like I’m afraid that if this ends, the spell will be broken, and I don’t want to break whatever…this is.
“Anytime.”
He steps closer, and my heart races because for one wild second, I swear he’s going to kiss me, and the terrifying part is that I don’t know if I’d stop him.
I should back away, but my feet stay rooted to the porch.
I take in a sharp breath as he leans down, fully expecting his lips on mine. Only his arms slide around me instead, pulling me into him, careful of the ridiculous dress.
For a second, I stand there, frozen.
He’s hugging me. A real hug. Warm and steady and far too intimate for someone I keep pretending I don’t like.
“You're the most talented person I've ever seen,” he says quietly, his voice a low rumble against me. “And I can’t wait for the world to realize it.”
My throat tightens. If I open my mouth, something humiliating will fall out—like a sob or a confession or a ‘yes, kiss me.’ So I don’t speak. I just cling to the moment, feeling my carefully constructed walls bending in ways they absolutely should not.
When he finally pulls back, he's smiling at me—that genuine smile with the dimples that make my stomach do stupid things.
“Goodnight, Princess.”
“Goodnight, Scotty,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
I take my bag from him, turn, and practically flee into the house. I close the door behind me and lean against it, trying to catch my breath.
“What’s up?” Lyss asks from the living room. Her hair is in a bun, and she’s writing something in her notebook as her eyes drag over me. “Why are you dressed as Princess Blanca? Wait, did you have a gig? Who drove you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“One that I fully intend to hear.”
A truck rumbles outside, prompting Lyss to come over and peek out the window.
She gasps. “Laura Alison Conners, did a guy drive you home?”
I don’t need to open my eyes to know she’s close. I can practically feel her breath on me as she waits for me to answer. Lyss isn’t going to let this go. I know it. So I might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“It was Scotty,” I say, swallowing.
“Scotty? As in hoagie dick? Wait, why the hell were you with him? What happened?”
“I never said he had a…” I stop myself before I spiral into a conversation I will absolutely regret. “Nothing happened. He just gave me a ride.”
“Mm-hm.” She eyes me knowingly. “Because all purely platonic car rides end with rumpled dresses and messed up princess hair.”
“We didn’t—we’re not—” I shake my head. “Nothing happened.”
“But you want it to.”
“I don't.”
Even I can hear the lie.
“Sure, Jan.” She heads back to the couch and plops down, reaching for her notebook. Then she starts flipping through the pages. “If you’re done lying to both of us, I made popcorn.”
“I’m not lying,” I mutter.
She doesn’t look up or even react, and I know she doesn’t believe me, not for a second.
Peeling myself off the door, I say, “I need to go to bed and figure out my life.”
“Uh-huh. Tell Scotty I said hi in your dreams.”
My only answer is my middle finger as I haul my huge dress up the stairs.
Once my Princess Blanca dress is hung up and I’ve had my shower, I pull on my pajamas and collapse onto my bed.
Finally, a little respite. My body is aching, my mind is whirring, and my lips are tingling over a kiss that never happened.
When I roll onto my side, I see it.
The leather-bound book on my bedside table. The one I haven’t dared to open since Scotty gave it to me.
I've been avoiding it, honestly. Keeping it at arm's length because acknowledging the gift means acknowledging him, and I'm not ready for that. Not when every interaction we have leaves me more confused than the last.
But tonight feels different. He watched me perform and said things no one else has. I can’t ignore him anymore.
I reach for it slowly, my fingers trembling slightly as they trace the embossed letters.
The Princess Bride.
Maybe reading a chapter will help me think about something other than Scotty Hendricks and his stupidly genuine smile and the way his arms felt around me…
I crack it open, and freeze.
There, on the first page, is handwriting. His handwriting.
Laura,
My mom read this to me when I was ten. I pretended I was too old for it. I wasn’t. Still read it every year.
I hope this makes up for ruining your copy, even though I know it probably never will.
I’m sorry again, Princess.
Scotty.
I flip to the next page, and there are more notes scattered in the margins. His handwriting is everywhere, some ink faded, some fresher.
Inigo’s dedication is everything.
Another page:
Buttercup gets a bad rap. She’s not weak—she’s stuck.
I flip through slowly, taking in each note. His thoughts. His reactions. Things he wanted to write down.
Read this scene 20 times. Still gets me.
Westley and Buttercup prove that some things are worth fighting for, even when everyone tells you it's impossible.
True love is the greatest thing in the world. There’s a reason dad quotes this entire scene every anniversary.
I keep reading, page after page, full of his notes. He’s everywhere in this book, and not the arrogant hockey player I thought he was when I first met him. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever believed he was that. It was just easier than knowing he was this.
A guy who loves to read. One who hides his unfiltered thoughts here and gave them to me.
I skim through the book, excited to read his notes, but as much as I want to do it all tonight, that won’t do him justice. I need to take my time, just like he did.
As I get to the final pages of the book, I see a note:
This is what love should be. Brave and true and willing to risk everything.
And then, on the very last page:
Laura,
You didn’t know who I was when we met. You just saw some naked idiot who knocked you into a fountain. And yeah, I’m probably the worst thing that’s happened to you since you got here… but meeting you? That’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years.
I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for that, but I hope you’ll at least give me the chance to prove I’m more than the worst first impression in history.
As you wish,
Scotty
Something slips out from the back of the book and lands on my comforter.
Two tickets.
I pick them up and study them. Season tickets to Covey U hockey games with a Post-it note stuck to them.
“In case you ever change your mind about hockey players. No pressure. -S”
I stare at the tickets for a long moment, then carefully tuck them back into the book.
No pressure, he says. As if giving me his annotated favorite book and tickets to watch him play isn't the most pressure I've ever felt in my life.
I close the book carefully and lie back, setting it on my chest.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
My heart is doing something weird. Not racing exactly, but not normal either.
He gave me this before he ever knew about Princess Blanca.
Before tonight. Which means he’d already decided I was worth sharing this with him—his favorite book, his private thoughts—based on what?
One fountain fiasco. He didn’t know anything real about me, and somehow, he still thought I deserved a piece of him.
I close my eyes, feeling a warmth I’ve never experienced before. No one has ever made me feel like I left an impression after a single meeting.
This is bad.
Not the book. The book is... the book is actually kind of perfect, which is the problem.
Because I can't keep pretending anymore. Can't keep telling myself he's just some cocky hockey player I'm stuck working with. Can't keep acting like tonight didn't happen—like he didn't watch me perform and call me talented and hug me like I mattered.
Like he didn't give me something that clearly means something to him.
“Lyss!” I call out, my voice sharper than intended.
I hear her footsteps on the stairs, then my door cracks open. She's still in her pajamas, notebook in hand, looking concerned.
“Everything okay? Did you—” She stops when she sees my face. “Oh shit. What happened?”
“I'm in trouble.”
She steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. “Hoagie dick trouble?”
“Stop calling him that.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh. Okay, what did he do?”
I hold up the book wordlessly.
She comes closer, sitting on the edge of my bed. “He gave you a book. That's... nice?”
“It's his book. With notes. His notes. Everywhere.” I flip to the back and pull out the tickets. “And these.”
Lyss takes the tickets, reads the Post-it, and her jaw drops. “Laura. These are season tickets. Do you know how much these cost?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
She hands them back carefully, like they might bite. “He's not messing around.”
“I know.”
She reaches for the book, and I let her take it, watching as she flips through a few pages. Her expression shifts from curious to understanding.
“Laura,” she says softly, closing it and handing it back. “This is...”
“I know.”
“No, like, this is really—”
“I know.”
She studies my face for a long moment. “So what are you going to do?”
“I have no idea.” I press the book against my chest again.
She laughs, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “You're allowed to like him, you know. Even if it's scary.”
“It's terrifying.”
“Yeah.” She smiles. “But I’m guessing he's just as terrified of you.”
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod.
“You should probably sleep on it,” Lyss suggests, standing up. “When do you see him again?”
“Friday.”
“Good. That gives you time to process.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “For what it's worth? I think he's good for you. You've smiled more in the last few hours than you have all week.”
She leaves me in the room with no clearer a head and the weight of what comes next.
Three days to decide if I'm brave enough to let this become something real.
I pull the book closer to my chest and close my eyes.
The problem is, I already know the answer.
I just don't know if I'm ready to admit it yet.