Chapter 2 #2
“Oh, so I’m a stranger now?” That hint of a grin returns, like he finds my elusiveness amusing.
“Okay, what would it take, then? Please don’t say another karaoke song, because I’m pretty sure no one wants to hear me twice in one night.
” He crosses his arms, which only serves to highlight the fact that he has really nice biceps.
“How about this: you ask me a question, I’ll ask you one, and then we’re not strangers anymore. ”
“Alright,” I say reluctantly. I should walk away right now, back to my friends, and my safe little life. Instead, I meet his eyes. “Do you always rescue random women at karaoke bars, or am I special?”
He laughs. “First time, actually. You looked terrified up there.”
“I was terrified.”
“I know. That’s why I couldn’t just sit there. What made you get up there in the first place?”
I glance back at my table where Gabriella and Madi are watching us. “My friends. They think I need to get out more.”
“And do you?” he asks. “Need to get out more?”
“That’s two questions,” I point out.
“You’re right.” That smirk returns. “Your turn.”
“What do you do for a living? I mean, other than work out?” I nod toward his arms.
“That’s pretty much all I do,” he says vaguely. “What about you?”
“I work with children,” I say, watching his reaction. Specifically, anything that says he’s allergic to kids.
His eyebrows rise with interest. “No kidding? That takes a special kind of person. So what’s your name, mystery woman? Are we finally more than strangers?”
“I guess we are.” I’m still feeling completely out of practice at this, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me want to stay here. “I’m Janie Bennett.”
“Janie Bennett,” he repeats, then glances at the dance floor where couples are slowly filling the space now that the DJ finally got the music working again. “So, Janie Bennett, want to talk more on the dance floor?”
I shake my head. “I’m pretty much two left feet.”
“Good. Me too.”
I tilt my head, puzzled. “You know that was not a yes.”
“I know,” he replies. “But it also wasn’t a no.”
I open my mouth to make some excuse, but this time, I can’t. It should be so easy to turn him down, but this stranger went out of his way for me, and the least I can do is give him one dance.
“Consider it payment for the karaoke rescue,” he offers, like he senses my hesitation. “No strings attached.”
Dang it all, if he isn’t convincing too.
Against my better judgment, I take his hand and let him lead me to the dance floor. I already know this is a mistake that will come with complications. Confusing, heart-altering complications.
When he splays his hand across my lower back, I forget everything else.
The song is slow, something country and sweet, and suddenly we’re moving together in a gentle sway that doesn’t require any special steps.
Even when I step on his toes, he pretends not to notice.
For a moment, I let myself get lost in the music, the white lights strung around the rafters making his face glow.
“My favorite thing about this place is that they keep Christmas lights up year-round,” I say, nodding toward the twinkling strands above us.
“Huh.” His eyes narrow as he follows my gaze. “It’s the one thing I would change about this place.”
“Change…why?” I ask.
“I don’t really love Christmas.” He says this as a matter of fact, like he’s admitting to not liking puppies. Or sunshine. Or the concept of joy itself.
My smile falters as I stop swaying. “What? I love Christmas.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered by my reaction. “Sure. But all that forced cheer? Not my thing.”
“Forced?” I repeat. “Not all of it is forced.”
“Come on,” he says with that charming smile, which doesn’t quite reach his eyes now. “You can’t tell me all that ‘most wonderful time of the year’ stuff is genuine.”
Part of me wants to argue with him, to defend something I hold sacred. But another part of me—the part that’s still attracted to his dark eyes and the way he stepped in to save me—wants to ignore this massive red flag.
That’s exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble before.
“Hey, Rourke!” one of the guys near the back hollers. That’s when I notice that all the guys at his table are wearing matching logos on their hoodies and jackets. They’re from the Carolina Crushers—the local hockey team.
Of course, he’s a hockey player.
“Already making your move on a new woman, huh?” the guy adds.
And that’s the last straw.
Whatever was happening between us vanishes instantly. I notice women at nearby tables watching us with the kind of look that makes my stomach knot. I don’t want to compete for a man. And I’ll never be someone’s second choice again.
“You’re a hockey player for the Crushers?” I ask, my stomach sinking.
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a hint of pride in his voice now, like this answer usually is the right one. “Defenseman.”
And there it is, the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. A Christmas-hating hockey player who probably has women lined up in his phone.
I step back abruptly. “I really need to go.”
His brow furrows. “Janie, wait—will I see you here again?”
“Probably not,” I say. “I’m…” I can’t say “a mom” because he probably hates babies too. “Too busy.”
“Well, maybe I’ll run into you sometime?”
I shake my head. “Sorry…probably not.”
“Why not?” He looks genuinely hurt, like he’s replaying the last few minutes trying to figure out what went wrong.
And I hate that I’m the one saying no—especially when every other woman here would probably say yes. But I got caught up in his charm before doing my due diligence, which leaves me no choice but to be blunt. “Because we’re fundamentally incompatible.”
He stares at me like he doesn’t get it. “What…how?”
“Well, for one, because you don’t like Christmas. And I love it more than anything.”
He blinks. “Wait, that’s your reason?”
“Yeah, and if you don’t like that…” I shrug helplessly. “Then you’d hate a huge part of who I am.”
Because all the things that revolve around Christmas—family, children, traditions—it’s all I live for now.
And that was just the first red flag. A man who can dismiss something that brings joy to millions?
That tells me everything I need to know about his character.
Add in the fact that he’s a professional athlete who probably has a different woman every week, and I’d have to be crazy to think this could go anywhere good.
Because guys like him don’t typically sign up for single-mom complications.
All the way back to my table, I can feel his eyes on me. Part of me wants to look back; the smarter part keeps walking.
“Well?” Gabriella sets down her drink and looks up at me with something like hope.
“That,” I say, picking up my purse before heading for the door, “is exactly why I don’t put myself out there.”