Chapter 5 #2
"Scared you'll win it,” he corrects.
The admission hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us is ready to address. Maya clears her throat pointedly.
"Okay, love birds, let's finalize the timeline." She pulls up her calendar. "Ten dates over how long?"
"Seven weeks," I say quickly. "Leading up to the Christmas Eve festival for the grand gesture finale."
"Seven weeks?" Mac tests the words. "That's not very long to change someone's fundamental beliefs about love."
"It's plenty of time if you're open to it."
He rolls his eyes. "Big if.”
Around us, conversations have completely stopped. Martha isn't even pretending not to listen anymore. Mr. Kowalski has moved from the counter to a booth with a direct sightline to our table.
"We have an audience," Mac observes.
"We're the best entertainment this town's had in months." I can't help smiling at the absurdity of our situation. "They're probably wondering whether this whole thing is real or fake."
"What would you bet?" Mac asks quietly.
The question feels weighted with more than curiosity. I study his face, looking for clues about what he wants me to say. "I'd bet on real."
"Even knowing how it started?"
"Especially knowing how it started."
Mac stares at me for several heartbeats before nodding slowly. "Then I guess we have a deal."
He extends his hand across the table. When I take it, his palm is warm and calloused from years of holding hockey sticks.
Maya immediately lifts her phone to snap a photo.
The handshake lingers longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that sends electricity shooting up my arm.
"Deal," I manage, wondering what exactly I've just agreed to. “One more thing.”
I slide the leather-bound journal across the diner table, watching Mac's expression shift from curiosity to suspicion as his fingers brush the worn cover.
"What's this?" he asks, his voice carrying that familiar edge of wariness that I've realized appears whenever I spring something unexpected on him.
"Part of our bet." I curl my hands around my coffee mug, savoring the warmth against my palms. "One of our dates is going to be the pen pal trope."
Mac's eyebrows shoot up, and he laughs—a short, incredulous sound. "Pen pal? What are we, twelve?"
"The pen pal trope is incredibly popular in romance," I say, keeping my tone matter-of-fact despite the flutter in my stomach.
Maya nods her agreement. "Two people getting to know each other through letters, sharing thoughts they might not say face-to-face.
Building intimacy through words, rather than physical presence. "
He flips the journal open, scanning the blank cream-colored pages. "And you want us to... what, exactly?"
"Write to each other. Real letters, not texts or emails." I lean forward, my elbows resting on the scratched Formica surface. "Throughout the next few weeks, we'll leave letters for each other. You can drop yours at the bookshop, I'll leave mine at the front desk of the inn."
"This is ridiculous," Mac mutters, but he's still turning pages, his thumb running along the edge of the paper. "I'm not much of a writer."
Maya scoffs. "You literally just finished a book tour."
"That was ghostwritten." He snaps the journal shut and pushes it back toward me. "I told my stories to some guy in New York, and he made them sound good."
I don't take the journal back. Instead, I fold my arms and study his face—the way his jaw ticks when he's uncomfortable, how his eyes dart away from mine when he's feeling cornered.
"Scared again, huh?" I ask, letting just enough challenge creep into my voice. “For a big, tough hockey player, you sure have no backbone.”
His head snaps up, steel-blue eyes locking onto mine. "Scared of what? I just don't see how this would count as a date."
"Of putting your real thoughts on paper. Of being honest without having someone else polish your words first."
"I'm honest," he says, but there's something defensive in his posture now, shoulders tensing under his flannel shirt.
"Are you?" I tilt my head, watching him squirm. "Because every conversation we have feels like you're holding something back. Like you're editing yourself in real time."
Mac's fingers drum against the table again, a restless rhythm that matches the energy radiating off him. He glances around the diner—at Martha refilling coffee at the counter, at the group of retired fishermen arguing about the weather forecast in the corner booth.
"Fine," he says finally, the word coming out sharp and clipped. "But I'm not writing you love poems or whatever."
"I wouldn't expect you to." I slide the journal back to him, satisfaction warming my chest. "Just... be yourself. Write about whatever's on your mind. What you're thinking about our bet, about the town, about–" I catch myself before I say 'about me' and settle for, “about anything.”
He pockets the journal with obvious reluctance, his movements stiff and jerky. "How often?"
"Whenever the mood strikes. Could be daily, could be weekly. The point is connection, not obligation."
Maya claps her hands together. “Then, it's settled. The bet has begun.”
As we stand to leave, the diner erupts in conversation. I catch fragments about romantic odds and second chances and whether leopards can change their spots.
Mac pauses at the door, his hand warm on my lower back as he holds it open. "For what it's worth," he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, "I hope you win."
The confession stops me cold. "Mac–"
But he's already walking away, leaving me standing in the doorway with my heart hammering and the entire town watching my reaction.
Maya appears at my elbow. "Girl, you are in so much trouble."
I watch Mac's retreating figure disappear around the corner, his shoulders set in determined lines. "The good kind or the bad kind?"
"With men like that?" Maya shakes her head. "Both."