Chapter 7
Seven
Mac,
I wasn't sure you'd actually do this, but Maya swore she saw you writing something at the diner yesterday when I was at the post office, so I'm assuming you wrote me something. (She also said you looked "brooding and constipated," which I think was her attempt at describing your thinking face.)
I keep thinking about Saturday night at the wedding. You were surprisingly good at playing my boyfriend. Almost too good. The way you held my hand during the ceremony, how you spun me on the dance floor like you actually enjoyed it. For a minute there, I forgot we were just putting on a show.
You want honesty? Here's mine: I've been thinking about you more than I should.
Not because of our bet or because you're famous or any of that surface stuff.
I keep thinking about the way you looked when that little girl at the wedding asked about your scar.
How your whole face softened when you told her it was from "being brave when someone needed help. "
You do that a lot, you know. Go soft around the edges when you think no one's looking. It makes me curious about who you really are under all that armor you wear.
I also keep thinking about Lily. I know it probably hurts to hear her name, but she was such a light in the world.
One of my very best friends. Did you know she used to sneak me extra cookies from your family's picnic basket when your mom wasn't looking, and she'd make up elaborate stories about the people walking by on the boardwalk?
She was the same as she grew older.
She saw magic everywhere. Romance in every story. Love around every corner.
Maybe our bet isn't really about proving romance novels are realistic. Maybe it's about proving that believing in good things—in love, in happy endings, in second chances—isn't naive. It's brave.
– D.
P.S. I'm leaving this in a copy of "The Hating Game" because I have a feeling you'd like the enemies-to-lovers banter.
Letter #2: Left on Rosewood Books' front desk in a plain white envelope
Delaney,
Your friend Maya has a real talent for insults. "Brooding and constipated" is definitely going in my top ten list of ways I've been described by the media. Though I think Sports Illustrated once called me "aggressively contemplative," which might still take the prize.
You're right that I wasn't sure I'd do this.
Letters feel too... permanent. Like putting thoughts down on paper makes them more real than they should be.
I've written so many and scrapped them, which is likely what Maya witnessed.
But here I am, writing to a woman who thinks she can fix my cynicism with romance novels and carefully planned dates.
About the wedding. I wasn't acting as much as you think I was. Dancing with you felt natural in a way that caught me off guard. You fit perfectly in my arms, and when you laughed at my commentary about your Uncle Pete's war stories, something in my chest loosened that's been tight for months.
That's the problem with you, Delaney. You make things feel easy when they should be complicated.
You mentioned Lily, and yeah, it does hurt.
But it also helps, somehow, hearing about her from someone else who remembers her joy instead of just her absence.
She loved you, you know. Talked about you all the time.
She would have loved watching us stumble through this bet.
Probably would have been rooting for you from day one.
I read your book recommendation, by the way. Lucy and Josh's banter does remind me of us, except they're both emotionally available and I'm... well, I'm working on it.
See you tomorrow for whatever torture you've planned next.
Mac
P.S. - Stop leaving romance novels with sexy covers where Mrs. Chen can see them. She's been giving me knowing looks all week.
Delaney
The weather app on my phone says the storm won't hit until tomorrow afternoon, and the sky outside Rosewood Books looks like it might be right. Gray clouds hang low over Main Street, the wind rattling the front windows in that ominous way that makes tourists hurry back to their cars.
Perfect timing for Date Two. Probably. It's been nearly a week since Sarah's wedding, and I'm getting antsy.
I load the last of the supplies into the truck bed I inherited with the shop—extra firewood, battery-powered lanterns, and enough soup cans to survive a zombie apocalypse.
Mac's been holed up in the Whitmore cabin on Miller's Ridge for three days now.
It's where his family usually stayed for the summer, and according to Maya's sources (also known as Janis Campbell at the grocery store), he hasn't been into town once since he moved from the inn.
If I didn't know any better, I'd guess he was hiding. From what? Who knows. But we have work to do, and time is already limited.
"This is either brilliant or completely insane," Maya says, appearing beside my truck with two travel mugs of coffee. "I'm leaning toward insane."
"It's research." I accept the coffee gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
"Forced proximity is a classic romance trope. Two people trapped together in one shared space for an extended period of time? It’s always a hit.
I'll stop by to drop off some things for the storm.
We'll act out being trapped together. I'll leave before the storm actually hits.
It'll be great. If I can prove it works in real life–"
"Del." Maya's voice carries that tone she uses when she thinks I'm being naive.
"You realize you're driving up a mountain to potentially get snowed in with a guy who makes grizzly bears look cuddly on purpose, right?
A guy who's been avoiding the public since he basically called your entire life philosophy bullshit on national radio? "
I turn to face her, pulling my wool coat tighter against the wind. "He didn't mean it the way it sounded."
"How do you know?"
Because I saw his face when he talked about Lily.
Because I saw his eyes gleaming at that wedding.
Because underneath all that anger is someone drowning in guilt and grief.
Because the boy who used to build elaborate snow forts with his little sister is still in there somewhere, buried under months of pain and self-hatred.
"I just do. Besides, I'm not really getting trapped in the snow with him. I'll leave before it begins."
Maya studies my face for a long moment, then sighs. "Your truck's definitely going to break down up there, isn't it?"
I whip my head toward her. "What makes you say that?"
"Because nothing happens by accident in this town when romance is involved. Denise Abbott's grandson, Chet, works at Peterson's Auto Shop, and he owes you for helping him ask out Jade Mitchell."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I would never–"
But they would…
Maya doesn't look like she believes me. "Relax. I'm not judging. Just... be careful, okay? I know you think you can save everyone, but some people are too broken to fix."
I climb into the driver's seat, hands trembling slightly as I grip the steering wheel. "Maybe. But what if he's not?"
Her answer is a shrug as she steps backward, allowing space for me to close the door.
The drive up Miller's Ridge takes twenty minutes on a good day. Today, with November wind gusts trying to push my truck into the guardrail, it takes thirty-five. By the time I pull into the cabin's gravel driveway beside Mac's car, fat snowflakes are already starting to fall.
Perhaps my weather app was lying.
Mac emerges from the cabin before I can even turn off the engine, moving with that controlled athlete's grace despite favoring his left shoulder.
He's wearing a thick wool sweater and jeans that fit him in ways that should be illegal, and his dark hair is messy like he's been running his hands through it.
"Second date already? Might have to wait," he greets, opening my driver's side door. "Looks like there’s a storm coming."
"Exactly." I hop down from the truck, immediately regretting not wearing better boots as my feet sink into the already-accumulating snow. "And dates aside, I wanted to make sure you had supplies before it gets bad."
His steel-blue eyes narrow. "Sounds suspiciously like a setup."
"I have no idea what you mean." I pop the truck's tailgate and start unloading bags, tucking my chin to my chest to hide my smile. "I'm just being a good neighbor. Very wholesome. Nothing romantic about emergency preparedness."
Mac snorts, but he starts helping me carry supplies toward the cabin.
"Right. And I suppose your truck breaking down up here would be a complete coincidence?
Let's see what our next date is…" he pauses, holding his hand up like a piece of paper he's pretending to read off. “Oh yeah, forced proximity.”
"My truck is perfectly–" I turn the key in the ignition to prove my point. Nothing happens. Not even a click. Maya was right. "Oh, you have to be kidding me."
Mac's eyebrow arches, and there's something dangerously close to amusement in his expression.
I try the ignition again. Still nothing. The dashboard lights don't even flicker. "It was working fine on the drive up."
"Uh-huh." Mac leans against the truck's side, arms crossed. Snow is falling harder now, accumulating on his dark hair. "Let me guess. Someone from town happened to do some recent maintenance on this truck?"
My silence is answer enough.
"Jesus, Delaney." But Mac doesn't sound angry. If anything, he sounds almost... impressed? "You really went all-in on this one."
"I didn't plan this!" The words come out sharper than intended. "I mean, not exactly. Maybe I mentioned to Chet that the battery seemed a little weak, but I didn't tell him to–"
"To disconnect it just enough so you'd get stranded here with me?"