Chapter 8 Brody #2
“Touching your face like ‘I’ll never wash this cheek again!’” Jessa goes full Victorian, pressing her wrist to her forehead as she faints against the couch.
“Ew, Jessa.” I laugh, tossing one of the rejected outfits at her. “Stop. I’m trying to think, and you’re not helping.”
“Overthinking is more like it.”
I shoot her a scowl. That’s it. I reach back without looking and grab a dress at random. “This one,” I say.
See? How’s that for not overthinking?
Okay, wait—on second thought, that maybe isn’t the best way to make this possibly life-changing decision. Oh heavens, please don’t let me have grabbed something horrible. Nothing orange.
Jessa looks up. Surveys the dress. Nods approval. “It’s perfect.”
“Really?” I glance down to find my emerald-green dress. One of my favorite Goodwill finds and one I’ve been saving for the right occasion. I let out a relieved sigh.
Jessa presses her wrist to her forehead again. “Oh dear. I’ve found my dress, but goodness, how will I ever decide on hosiery on time?”
“Stop!” I cry as Jessa breaks down laughing.
We both go still at the sound of a knock at the door.
“Is that—that can’t be him. It’s too early!” I say, frantically gathering all the dresses into my arms.
“Oh, relax,” Jessa says, pushing her laptop aside. “It’s probably Mrs. Swenson from downstairs asking us to keep it down again. I’ll get it.”
Jessa vanishes down the hall, comes back a moment later holding an envelope.
A large manila envelope with my name typed on the front.
My stomach drops.
“This was in our mailbox,” Jessa says, handing it to me. “Looks official.”
I know what it is before I open it. The return address confirms it: Starlight Publishing—Children’s Publishing Division.
I submitted my manuscript three months ago. A children’s book about a dragon who wants to fly and the little girl who helps him find his wings. All twenty-eight pages are filled with whimsical illustrations I drew myself. It’s twenty-eight pages of the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever created.
I’ve been checking my email obsessively for weeks.
Apparently they went old-school.
Snail-mail rejection.
“Want me to open it?” Jessa asks gently.
“No. I’ve got it.”
I tear open the envelope. Pull out the letter.
Dear Ms. Dawson,
Thank you for submitting your manuscript, “The Dragon Who Wanted to Fly,” to Starlight Publishing. While we appreciated the creativity and heart in your story, we regret to inform you that it does not fit our current publishing needs…
The rest is standard rejection boilerplate.
We receive thousands of submissions. This is a subjective business. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Something falls out of the envelope.
One of my illustrations—the dragon from Barcelona. The one I’d sketched out that morning in Park Güell, just before Brody saved my purse.
Only that dragon had been different—sharper, harsher. Beautiful and expressive, but unafraid.
And then Brody showed up. Burst into my life and made me believe in a different kind of hero…
even just for a moment. From then on, my dragon looked a little different.
No matter how many times I sketched him.
He wasn’t ferocious anymore, not crouched over his hoard of treasure. He was just…alone. Hiding.
In this version, the dragon peers out from the depths of a dark cave, his eyes bright in the inky black.
I stare at it.
Jessa picks it up carefully. “Chloe. This is beautiful.”
“It’s not good enough, apparently.”
“One rejection doesn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.” I fold the letter. Shove it back in the envelope.
“It’s just a silly dream anyway. I should focus on event planning.
Stick to what I’m good at. That’s the practical thing.
The realistic thing.” Never mind that my event planning business is circling the drain as well.
But with Maya’s wedding coming up, at least there’s hope for it.
“Chloe—”
“I’m fine.” I force brightness into my voice. “Really. It’s fine. I have a date to get ready for. Let’s just—let’s focus on that.”
Jessa watches me for a long moment.
Then she sets the illustration down carefully on the coffee table.
“All right,” she says. “Let’s fix you up.”
Three hours later, I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the person looking back.
The green dress fits perfectly—vintage seventies-style with bell sleeves and a wrap waist that’s somehow both bohemian and elegant.
Jessa convinced me to wear my hair down in loose waves instead of my usual ponytail.
Minimal makeup but enough to make my eyes look less like I’ve been fighting back tears over rejection letters.
I look…good?
Not Maya-level stunning. Not “professional hockey player’s girlfriend” polished.
But good.
Like maybe I could pass for a girl who deserves to be on Brody’s arm.
Maybe.
“You look amazing,” Jessa says from the doorway. She’s holding my coat. “Seriously. He’s going to lose his mind.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“Right. Just dinner.” She winks dramatically.
The doorbell rings.
My stomach flips.
“That’s him.” Jessa grins. “Deep breaths. You’ve got this.”
I grab my purse and head for the door.
Deep breaths.
It’s just dinner.
Professional.
Transactional.
Nothing to panic about.
I open the door.
Brody’s standing there in dark jeans and a moss-green sweater that makes his eyes look impossibly blue, holding flowers—actual flowers. Not just a sunflower this time, but a small bouquet of white roses and eucalyptus—and he’s so gorgeous I can’t breathe.
“Hi,” he says.
My brain short-circuits. “Hi.”
He’s staring at me. Not saying anything. And something painfully delicious and not at all professional flashes in his eyes.
Stop that!
“You look—” He stops. Swallows. “Wow.”
My face flushes. “Thanks. You too. I mean—not wow. Well, yes, wow. But—you look nice.”
Smooth, Chloe. Very smooth.
He holds out the flowers. “These are for you.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I take them, and our fingers brush for a half second. An electric zing shoots up my arm, stealing my breath for a heartbeat. “They’re beautiful.”
“I wasn’t sure if flowers were too much. Or not enough. Or—” He stops himself. “I’m overthinking this.”
“No, they’re perfect.” I step back. “Come in. Let me just put these in water.”
He follows me inside.
Jessa is standing by the couch, trying very hard to look like she wasn’t eavesdropping.
“Hi, Brody,” she says brightly. “Chloe, I’ll just—” She makes this very pointed eye gesture. Like Wow, he looks niiiiiice. Don’t you think so?
I shoot her a look that hopefully conveys Stop that immediately.
She grins innocently. “Have fun, you two!”
And then she disappears into her bedroom.
Leaving us alone in the tiny living room.
I find a vase—actually a mason jar, because I don’t own vases—and fill it with water. Arrange the flowers. Set them on the counter.
When I turn around, Brody’s looking at the dragon illustration Jessa left on the coffee table.
My heart stops.
“Is this yours?” he asks quietly.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s just—something I was working on.”
He picks it up carefully, his gaze falling over every line, taking it in like some sort of fine art.
The silence stretches.
“It’s incredible,” he says finally.
“It’s just a silly doodle.”
He looks up at me, and his eyes catch mine in that sort of unescapable way. That way that makes me feel seen…and so vulnerable. There’s something in that look—something I can’t quite read. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s deciding whether to say it.
Then he sets the illustration down carefully. “It’s really good, Chloe.”
His voice is so genuine it makes my chest ache.
“Thanks,” I manage.
He doesn’t know it was rejected today. Doesn’t know that publishers think my “creativity and heart” aren’t enough. Doesn’t know that this silly dream of mine just got professionally dismissed.
And I’m not going to tell him.
“Ready to go?” I ask, grabbing my coat before he can ask more questions.
“Yeah. Of course.”
He helps me into my coat—his hands gentle on my shoulders—and I try very hard not to think about how good he smells or how close he’s standing or how my heart is doing that weird flutter thing again.
We head downstairs and out to the street. The Shelby is parked at the curb, gleaming under the streetlights.
“So,” Brody says as he opens the passenger door for me. “How was your Sunday?”
I slide into the car. The leather is cold but familiar now. “It was good. Went to church. Had lunch with Jessa. Worked on some business stuff.”
He gets in the driver’s seat. Starts the engine. “Church?”
“Yeah. My church does this thing where they go through books of the Bible slowly. We’re in 2 Corinthians right now.”
I’m rambling. I always ramble when I’m nervous.
And what’s there to be nervous about? Oh, I don’t know.
Maybe the fact that this fancy little car smells just like him and there’s a very real possibility that it overrides my brain’s ability to be rational and I end up throwing myself at him over the middle console during the next red light, and now all I can seem to think about is just not doing that… Yeah, I think I’m nervous about that.
And so I keep going, boring him with details about the morning’s sermon. “Yesterday was about not losing heart. How God is at work in us even when we don’t understand what’s happening. When everything feels hard or confusing or like it’s falling apart.”
I stop.
That got way more personal than I intended.
“Sorry. You probably don’t care about—”
“No, I—” He’s quiet for a moment. Pulls out into traffic. “Do you go to church? Regularly?”
“Most Sundays, yeah. Unless I have an event.” I glance at him. “Do you?”
“We did. When I was a kid. My mom had faith.”
His voice changes.
Softer. Quieter.
“It sort of died with her.”
The words hang in the air.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”
But it’s not fine. I can hear it in his voice. The way he’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. The careful control.
“You know, she got me into hockey,” he continues.
“My mom. She was sick most of my childhood. Cancer. That’s why we moved to Minneapolis, actually.
Shorter commute to Mayo for her treatment.
Anyway, hockey was the one thing that was just mine.
She’d come to my games when she could. Sit in the stands wrapped in blankets, even when she was exhausted.
She never missed a game if she could help it. ”
The pale streetlights pour through the window, softening the hard lines of his face. My heart aches at that faraway look in his eyes. He’s back there now, with his mom.
“Hockey saved me,” he continues. “Gave me purpose. A future. A way out. After she died, my dad started drinking. A lot. Home was chaos. But hockey had rules. Structure. If I worked hard enough, played well enough, I could control the outcome.”
He pauses.
Glances at me.
“That’s why I can’t lose it. Hockey is everything. It’s all I have.”
It’s all I have.
The words sit heavy between us.
He doesn’t have people. Doesn’t have family he can count on. Doesn’t have anything except the game and the performance and the careful control he’s built to survive.
And now I’m taking twenty thousand dollars from him to help him keep the only thing he has left.
Great.
Cool.
Love that for me.
“You’re not alone,” I hear myself say. “I know it feels like hockey is all you have. But you have people. Even if you don’t see it yet.”
You’ve got me I want to say. But I can’t promise that. I shouldn’t promise that.
Brody doesn’t respond. Doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
I can’t tell if he’s being mysterious or is suddenly thinking this is a bad idea.
Then he pulls up in front of a restaurant—dark brick exterior, warm lighting glowing through windows, elegant signage that reads Barcelona Wine Bar in script letters.
I stare at the sign.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Barcelona,” I say slowly.
He looks at me. All innocent confusion. “What?”
“The restaurant. It’s called Barcelona.”
“Is it?” He glances at the sign like he’s noticing it for the first time. “Huh. Would you look at that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t know?”
“Total coincidence.” His face is perfectly neutral. “I just picked it because the food’s supposed to be good.”
“Brody.”
“What?” He’s fighting a smile now. I can see it at the corners of his mouth. “It’s a popular name. Lots of places are called Barcelona.”
“In Minneapolis?”
“Sure. Probably.” He’s fully grinning now. “Statistically speaking.”
“You absolutely knew.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he’s laughing. A deep, warm rumble that instantly fogs my mind. “I’m just a simple hockey player who wanted to take a beautiful girl to dinner and—”
“You’re lying.”
“—happened to pick a restaurant with a completely random name that has absolutely nothing to do with—”
“Brody Kane.”
He holds up both hands in surrender.
And then he smiles.
Not Candy Kane. Not performance. Not careful control.
Just him.
A real, devastating, knee-buckling smile that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.
“Okay,” he admits. “Maybe I knew.”
My stomach flips. “Why?”
“Because—” He stops. The smile softens. “Because I needed a do-over.”
Oh.
Ohhh.
And now my heart is doing extremely unauthorized things.
The contract said we weren’t supposed to talk about Barcelona outside of our official story. Section something-or-other. Prior romantic history remains confidential…We were supposed to pretend that some things from that night never happened.
“So this was”—I can barely get the words out—“intentional?”
“Completely intentional.” He’s still smiling that smile. Oh, he’s good. “Is that okay?”
Is it okay?
Is it okay that he remembered Barcelona enough to pick a restaurant with the same name?
Is it okay that he’s totally breaking the rules?
Is it okay that I really don’t care?
Absolutely not okay. Danger. Danger!
“Yeah, it’s okay.” Oh, I’m in trouble.
“Good.” He gets out of the car. Comes around to open my door. “Because I’m really hoping this night ends better than the last one.”
He offers his hand.
I take it, and we walk toward the restaurant entrance together. The winter air bites at my cheeks. Somewhere behind us, the Shelby’s engine ticks as it cools. Ahead of us, the restaurant glows with warm light and the promise of Spanish wine and tapas and conversation.
And second chances.
And rules that need breaking.
And I think: Maybe this isn’t such a terrible idea.
Maybe.