Chapter 12 Brody #2
@L.Evergreen: Poor Chloe, she seems so sweet
Chloe doesn’t deserve any of this.
This is my mess. My past. Following Chloe into her present. She doesn’t deserve Ashley’s bitterness. Doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage in someone else’s vendetta.
What was I thinking? I should have responded to her texts. Should have told her what that kiss meant instead of running like a coward.
My phone is in my hand, and I’m scrolling to her contact before I can stop myself.
This is a bad idea. Terrible idea. It’s eleven p.m. She’s probably asleep. Or busy. Or over me.
I call anyway.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Maybe she won’t answer. Maybe she’s finally moved on from my—
“Hello?” Her voice. Slightly breathless. Like she ran to get the phone.
And just like that, I can breathe again.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s me.”
“Hey.” There’s something in her voice. Careful. Guarded. “What’s up?”
Right. I’ve been ignoring her for a week, and now I’m calling at eleven p.m. Hey! It’s me. Smooth, Kane.
“I just—” I stop. Conrad said to be real. I drag in a breath. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
There’s silence on the other end. I can hear something in the background. Music, maybe. Or a TV.
Then, “Are you okay?”
Be real. Be honest.
“Yeah. Fine.” He shoots. He misses.
“Brody.” She says my name like she can see right through me. “I watched your games. You got into two fights in three games. That’s not fine.”
I close my eyes. Of course she watched.
“It’s been a rough week.”
Her voice softens slightly. “Are you hurt? That hit tonight looked bad.”
I look at my wrapped hand. The bruised knuckles. Touch my left eye gently—still tender, still swelling. “Nothing serious. Just bumps and bruises.”
“You don’t have to pretend it’s all okay, you know.” She pauses. “I’m still bound by our contract. Your secrets are safe with me.”
I can’t tell if she’s kidding. It doesn’t feel funny. But then she laughs. Soft. Warm. “Loosen up, Brody. I’m not going to leak your medical records to TMZ.”
And just like that, the tension breaks.
I lean back against the headboard, the cheap hotel pillow bunching behind me. My shoulders relax for the first time in days. Admit you’re wrong. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I—”
“My brother used to get in a little funk after losing a game. I get it.”
That’s not what I was apologizing for, but she continues, and I let her. “How’s Vancouver looking?”
“Cold. Wet. Canadian.”
She laughs again. “Wow. You really know how to sell a city.”
“I’m a man of many talents.”
“Clearly.”
We fall into sudden, weird silence. Like maybe she’s thinking about the kiss—I know I am. I clear my throat. “How’s the wedding prep going?”
“Good. Chaotic. You wouldn’t believe it.
I went with Maya to pick up her dress from the bridal shop, and they didn’t have it.
Apparently, their seamstress had it sent to a facility to be pressed, and it somehow didn’t end up on the truck to be sent back.
Took five hours for them to track it down, during which Maya just about imploded.
I think fifteen minutes and we’d have needed to sedate her.
” She’s smiling, I can hear it in her voice.
“It’s terrible. I shouldn’t laugh. It wasn’t funny at the time…
but now that we’ve got the dress back, I can’t help it.
Other than that, it’s pretty much your standard prewedding chaos.
” She pauses. “Oh, and I got a call from the Blue Ox publicist. She asked if I’d be interested in doing an interview with someone about the wedding and the company. ”
Felicity. The conversation in the car park. She must have followed it up.
“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Chloe stops. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“She asked me about your business a few weeks ago. Offered to get in touch with some people who could boost your visibility. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She sounds surprised. Pleased. “Well, thank you. Both of you.”
I shrug, still trying to play it cool, even if she can’t see me. “You’re talented. You deserve the exposure.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”
The words hit different. Softer. Deeper. Like she’s thanking me for more than just the interview.
“Always,” I say, and I mean it more than she knows.
Another pause. “What are you doing right now?” I don’t want this conversation to end. Don’t want to go back to the silence of this generic hotel room, with its beige walls and meaningless art.
“Drawing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a new story in my head. I’m trying to sketch it out before I lose it.” She sounds almost embarrassed. Self-conscious. “It’s probably silly.”
“Tell me about it.”
Hesitation. And then, “It’s about a dragon.
He’s a special dragon. He’s got these beautiful scales—iridescent, blues and greens, all sort of colors—that make him stand out.
” Her voice picks up, relaxing a little as the story pours out of her.
“But everyone’s always trying to steal his scales.
Take pieces of him. So he hides away in his cave, keeping everyone away.
They think he’s this grump, but he’s just protecting himself. ”
I may not be a genius—if my behavior the last week is any indication—but it doesn’t take a lot to see where she got her inspiration. A grump dragon with flashy scales that everyone seems to want a piece of.
I may not breathe fire, but if it looks like a dragon and sounds like a dragon…
“That’s not silly,” I say quietly.
“I don’t know where it goes from there. Just that image. The dragon alone, because he’s too scared to let anyone in.”
I swallow hard. “Well…it sounds to me like he needs someone to find a way into his safe little cave…draw him out into the sun.”
“Like…a warrior princess.”
“Yeah. But…someone who can’t see his scales.” I prop an arm behind my head, trying to envision the sketch in her hands.
“What? Why not?”
“I don’t know…maybe she’s blind?”
Silence. Then, “Really? That’s your pitch?”
“Okay, magically blind or…colorblind. Enchanted by a spell or something,” I say, chuckling. “The point is, she can’t see the scales everyone else wants. Not until the spell is broken. By then, she’s seen who he is without the scales. Just…” Me. “Him.”
There’s a long pause, and I suddenly want to take it all back, stuff it down. But I can’t, it’s already out there. When she finally speaks, the sound is full and bright. “That’s…kind of perfect.”
“Yeah? I mean—yeah. Well, I’m full of great ideas.”
She laughs, lighting up the whole room. “I know.”
When the silence settles again, it’s warm and heavy. Like a weighted blanket.
“Brody?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good man. On the inside and out. And you need to know that.”
The words fill my chest. I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t process what she just said. Because she just saw through every wall I’ve built. Every carefully constructed lie I tell myself about being all show and no substance, and…
And she thinks I’m good.
“I gotta go,” I manage. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow to Vancouver.”
“Right. Of course. But, Brody?”
“Yeah?”
“Go big, Number Seven.”
I think I love her.
I set down the phone. Stare at it for a long moment. Conrad’s words echo in my head. Be real. Admit you’re wrong. Ask how you can fix it.
I’ve been running because I’m scared. But maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late to turn around.
I get up, grab the ice bucket, and head out into the hall. Pile ice from the machine into it, return to my room, and shove my swollen knuckles into the cold.
CHLOE
Of all the ways I imagined spending my sister’s wedding weekend, sitting alone in a honeymoon suite wasn’t one of them.
And yet, here I am. A complete fraud with my fake relationship, unpacking in the Lakeside Suite—king bed, stone fireplace crackling away, rose petals scattered across white bedding like someone’s Pinterest board exploded.
There’s champagne chilling in an ice bucket.
Chocolate-covered strawberries on the nightstand.
The whole nine yards of romance.
For me.
Alone.
Apparently, there was a little mix-up with my reservation.
Maya booked the reservation as part of her room block, and the check-in lady thought it was her room.
But she’ll be glamming it up with her bridesmaids down in the Oak Cottage—all five of them squeezed into three bedrooms, which apparently left no space for the bride’s sister. Hence the honeymoon suite.
I set my suitcase—my sensible, decidedly unfancy suitcase that probably cost less than one of those throw pillows—on the bench at the foot of the bed and can’t help but laugh.
This room is ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Maple Lake, where late-February sun glints off patches of ice still clinging to the surface like it’s not quite ready to let go of winter. The bathroom has a jetted tub and heated floors. Heated. Floors.
If I wasn’t so embarrassed about being literally single in the honeymoon suite, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.
I start unpacking. Hang up the dress I brought for the rehearsal dinner.
Set my toiletries in the bathroom that’s roughly the size of my entire apartment bedroom.
Toss my giant tote filled with all the contracts, files, and timelines for the wedding onto the bed, and a manila folder skids across the duvet.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at it.
The return label reads Stratton Publishing.
I don’t know why I even brought that thing along, except that it was sitting outside my door when I went to pack Jessa’s car, and I couldn’t bear the thought of opening another rejection in front of her, so I stuffed it into my tote and let it burn a hole in my brain for the next three hours and seventeen minutes while Jessa drove me to Maple Lake.
The envelope stares at me, waiting.
Fine. Let’s just get it over with.