Chapter 20
Twenty
Mac,
I've written and rewritten this letter six times, and I still don't know how to say what I need to say without sounding petty or insecure or completely pathetic.
Stephanie is beautiful. She knew Lily. She shares history with you that I'll never be part of. She understands your grief in ways I can only imagine, and when she talks about your sister, there's this intimacy between you that made me feel like an outsider in my own life.
I know I have no right to be jealous. We're not actually together, no matter how blurred the lines have become. But watching her touch your arm, seeing the way you smiled when she told that story about Lily's sixteenth birthday—I wanted to disappear.
Then you chose me. At the memorial service, when it would have been so easy to turn to someone who knew Lily better, who could grieve with you properly, you reached for my hand instead. You included me in honoring her memory, even though I was just a kid who tagged along during summer vacations.
I don't know what that means for us, if anything. But it meant everything to me.
I'm not trying to compete with Stephanie or anyone else from your past. I just want you to know that whatever this is between us, I'm not going anywhere. Even if it's messy and complicated and probably doomed to break both our hearts.
Especially then.
Yours (still terrified, still yours), D.
Delaney
We're running dangerously low on date ideas. Even with all the creative substitutions Maya and I have brainstormed over the past few weeks, it's getting increasingly difficult to find romance tropes that actually make sense for our specific situation.
Maya has decided that a slow Monday afternoon at the bookshop, when the only customers are Mrs. Henderson browsing the mystery section and old Mr. Jacobson napping in the philosophy corner, is the perfect time to tackle this growing problem.
"Doctor and patient," she calls out from her perch on the counter stool, tapping the end of her favorite purple pen against her bottom lip in a rhythm that's starting to drive me insane.
Her dark hair falls like a curtain around her face as she leans over the legal pad where she's been scribbling increasingly ridiculous suggestions for the past hour.
"I think that's entering questionable roleplay territory," I say, not looking up from the inventory spreadsheet I'm pretending to focus on while actually listening to her brainstorm our romantic doom.
She makes an exaggerated sighing sound and crosses out three more lines with violent pen strokes that leave indent marks on the paper beneath. "Fine, scratch the medical scenarios."
"What else did you have written down there?" I ask, curiosity finally getting the better of me as I crane my neck to try to decipher her increasingly illegible handwriting.
"Oh, just a few fun ones that would definitely get people talking," Maya says with the kind of innocent tone that immediately puts me on high alert.
She counts them off on her fingers with obvious relish.
"Lawyer slash client—lots of sexual tension potential there.
French maid fantasy—self-explanatory. And my personal favorite, mafia boss and his accountant. "
My mouth falls open so fast I'm surprised my jaw doesn't hit the counter. "Maya..."
"What?" She shrugs, completely unrepentant as she twirls her pen between her fingers.
"No idea is a bad idea when you're brainstorming.
Besides, you're naturally checking off half the romance tropes already without even trying.
" She starts ticking them off on her fingers again.
"Enemies to lovers, check. Second chance romance, check.
The bet trope, obviously, check. No strings attached that turned into something real, check.
Millionaire hero, check. Sports romance, obviously check. "
"He is not a millionaire," I protest, but the words feel hollow even as they leave my mouth, dying somewhere in the space between my lips and Maya's skeptically raised eyebrow.
The truth is, I've been trying not to think too hard about the obvious wealth disparity between us.
His penthouse in Boston is definitely more lavish than anything I could ever afford.
Maya lifts one perfectly sculpted brow and gives me a look that suggests she's questioning my basic intelligence.
"Delaney Rose Caldwell, he's the star forward of an NHL hockey team that regularly makes the playoffs.
His contract alone is probably worth more than this entire town's annual budget.
And even before his professional career took off, his family had serious money.
I did my research. Trust me when I say he's definitely a millionaire. Multiple times over."
I shake my head slowly, the reality of it settling over me like a cold blanket.
For some reason, seeing the evidence of his wealth and actually hearing it stated so bluntly are two completely different experiences.
The knowledge sits heavily in my stomach, making me acutely aware of every threadbare corner of my secondhand dress and every worn spot on my grandmother's vintage furniture.
"Great," I mutter, slumping against the counter. "Add 'poor ugly duckling falls for rich prince' to our growing list of accidental tropes."
"Shut up right now," Maya says fiercely, pointing her pen at me like a weapon. "You may be financially challenged, but you are absolutely not ugly. You're gorgeous, and Mac looks at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars for his entertainment."
"Thanks for the reality check," I say dryly, but I can't help smiling at her fierce loyalty.
She offers me a tight, apologetic smile, then drops her gaze back down to her paper, pen poised for more note-taking.
"Speaking of reality checks, do you think we could fake a pregnancy scare?
That would definitely add some dramatic tension to the mix.
How long has it been since you two started having sex, anyway? "
"Maya!" I shriek, my face instantly flaming hot enough to power the shop's heating system for a week.
"What? I need to know for the betting pool anyway," she says with completely unashamed curiosity, not even bothering to look up from her notes. "Though, for the record, I'm certain I've already won that particular wager. The sexual tension was obvious from day one."
"As my best friend, you should absolutely not be participating in that betting pool," I say, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "It's a complete conflict of interest. And there is no way in hell I'm faking a pregnancy. That's not romantic, that's psychological warfare."
"But it would be plausible?" she asks, biting her lower lip with the kind of playful hopefulness that makes me want to throw my pen at her head.
I slam both palms down on the counter hard enough to make the vintage cash register rattle.
I push my stool away with enough force to send it rolling halfway across the shop, standing up to put some much-needed distance between us before I do something rash, like actually follow through on that pen-throwing impulse.
"Why don't we focus on something more realistic?" I suggest, running my hands through my hair in frustration. "What about a fish-out-of-water situation? Don't I have that booksellers conference thing happening this weekend in Hartford?"
Maya's eyes light up with genuine interest for the first time in an hour. "The New England Independent Booksellers Conference, right? That could actually work."
I nod, the idea starting to take shape in my mind as I pace between the poetry section and the local authors display.
"It's a whole weekend of panels, networking events, and industry discussions.
Mac would be completely out of his element, surrounded by literary types talking about things like marketing demographics and inventory management. "
"But didn't we already do the workplace romance angle?" Maya asks, flipping back through her notes. "That was the day he helped you at the bookshop, and it was kind of a disaster when those superfans showed up and mobbed him. You had to rescue him from a gaggle of teenage girls, remember?"
"Yes, but this would be different," I argue, warming to the concept.
"That was him in my familiar territory, dealing with my regular customers.
This would be me dragging him into my professional world, where he'd have to network with publishers and distributors and pretend to understand conversations about profit margins and book placement strategies.
No one at a booksellers conference is going to expect to see a professional hockey player. "
"Maybe," Maya says thoughtfully, tapping her pen against the counter in a slower, more contemplative rhythm.
"But didn't we technically already cover the fish-out-of-water trope when you went to Lily's memorial service with all his hockey friends and family?
You were definitely the one who felt out of place there. "
The memory of that day still makes my chest. "I certainly didn't feel like I belonged there," I admit quietly.
"Okay, technically, yes. But the point of these dates is supposed to be putting him through the romance novel experience, not you," Maya points out with the logic that makes her so good at managing our business finances.
"Besides, I'd classify the memorial service as more of a 'brutal past trauma with interfering ex' trope than straight fish-out-of-water.
Maybe even a love triangle situation. That Stephanie woman was definitely giving you territorial girlfriend vibes. "
When I don't immediately look convinced, Maya shakes her head and gives me the kind of exasperated look she usually reserves for customers who try to return books with coffee stains and dog-eared pages.
"Come on, Delaney. You're running out of viable options here unless you're genuinely willing to dress up in my French maid costume and—"