Chapter 12 Brody #4
“Right. Yeah.” My stomach drops a little at the thought of turning in for the night.
We walk into the lobby together. The evening light makes the lobby even more impressive.
Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace so large you could park a car in it, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the hardwood floors.
Leather furniture arranged in conversation clusters.
Vintage skis and snowshoes mounted on the walls, alongside black-and-white photos of the resort from decades past.
It smells like wood smoke and cinnamon and expensive candles.
The front desk attendant stands behind a massive wraparound desk, looking a little frazzled after what was likely a very busy day. She gives a little start when we step up to the desk.
“Hi,” Brody says, flashing that easy smile that probably makes people forget their own names. “Checking in. Brody Kane.”
The woman types on her computer.
Frowns.
Types some more.
The frown deepens.
Oh no.
“Is there a problem?” Brody asks.
“Um.” She glances between us, looking genuinely pained. “Mr. Kane, I have a reservation for you, but…it’s for next weekend.”
Silence.
“Next weekend?” Brody repeats.
“February nineteenth through the twenty-first.”
I watch Brody’s face. He’s trying to hide it, but I can see the frustration. The embarrassment. His jaw tightens. Shoulders tense.
And then I remember.
The dyslexia.
Numbers get jumbled sometimes. Dates. Addresses. It’s not his fault. It’s just how his brain works.
“That’s my mistake,” he says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Must have mixed up the dates when I booked.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she actually looks sorry, “but we’re completely booked this weekend. Multiple weddings, family reunions—there’s not a single room available.”
“It’s okay. I get it.” Brody pulls out his phone. “I’ll text the guys. Maybe someone has space in their room.”
He types quickly.
We wait.
His phone buzzes.
His expression says it all.
“They’re all full,” he says. “Four guys per room already.”
The attendant winces. “There are a few hotels in town. Let me check availability for you—”
But Brody’s already pulling up his phone. Scrolling through booking sites. His expression gets grimmer with each swipe.
“Everything’s booked,” he finally says. “Within twenty miles.”
Which makes sense. Maya’s wedding is kind of a big deal. And this isn’t exactly Minneapolis—it’s a small town that probably has, what, three hotels total?
I take a breath. “You can stay with me.”
The words come out before I can think about whether they’re a good idea.
Brody looks at me. “Chloe—”
“The room has a couch that pulls out. It’s big. There’s plenty of space.”
“I can’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” I try to sound casual. Like this isn’t making my heart race. “Besides, it’s either that or you drive three hours home and three hours back tomorrow morning. Which seems excessive.”
He hesitates.
Because he’s a gentleman.
Because this is complicated.
Because we’ve been walking a fine line between friends in a fake relationship and more than friends in a doomed one.
Another beat passes before he gives in. “All right, then.”
“All right?” The receptionist lets out a relieved breath as though she’d been bracing for a disgruntled customer. “Great. I’ll make you a set of keys.”
A few minutes later, Brody’s grabbed his bag from the car, and we’re headed up to the honeymoon suite.
“Wow.” Brody sets his bag down inside the suite. “I didn’t realize we’d be staying in the Taj Mahal.”
I didn’t pick the room, but I’m embarrassed just the same, as though I somehow dragged him into the fever dream that is the honeymoon suite. There’s still a trail of petals leading from the door to the bedroom.
“I should have asked housekeeping to come by and pick this up.”
“What?” An amused smile plays at his lips. “You don’t want flower petals all over your room? I can’t imagine why not.”
I give his shoulder a little smack. “Stop it, you.”
He laughs, catching my hand.
And I’m suddenly hyperaware of how small the room feels with both of us in it. “I feel bad. You’ve been traveling almost all day. I should…Let me take the couch,” I offer, gesturing to the sofa.
“Absolutely not.”
“Brody—”
“Chloe.” He looks at me. Really looks at me with those stupidly blue eyes.
“What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you take the couch?” He’s already moving toward it, testing the cushions.
“I’ve slept in worse places. Team bus after a double overtime game in Dallas?
This is luxury.” He’s already flopping down on the couch, tossing his feet up on the coffee table.
“Surely you wouldn’t take this away from me. ”
“All right, fine.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll allow it.”
He smirks, and my heart does a full pirouette.
A beat passes while I’m still standing there, staring at him, my brain turning to mush, and Brody clears his throat. “So, are you gonna turn in, or…” He pauses, and I swear I see something hopeful flicker across his face. “We could hang out? If you want.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
There is quite literally nothing I’d like more than just a few more minutes together.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Yeah. Let me just…I’m gonna go change.”
His smile is worth every bit of confusion currently rioting in my chest. “Take your time.”
I grab my pajamas and practically flee to the bathroom.
Very dignified.
I change into flannel pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Nothing even remotely romantic. Practically armor. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Stare at my reflection in the mirror and give myself a stern talking-to about not doing anything stupid.
The mirror doesn’t respond.
Helpful.
When I come out, Brody’s on the couch again, leaning back against the cushions. He’s changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, which looks both effortlessly comfortable and unfairly attractive.
The fireplace is still going, casting flickering shadows across his face, and Brody’s holding the remote, flipping through the channels.
He looks up when I appear, and something warm crosses his face. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I move toward the couch, and he scoots over to make room for me. The TV cycles through channels—a home renovation show, a true-crime documentary, what appears to be a very dramatic reality dating show—
Then he lands on a cooking competition. Two chefs in white coats working frantically while a timer counts down. The chairman’s voice booms dramatically about a secret ingredient.
I remember what he told me. Back at the beginning of all this. How cooking shows are his guilty pleasure.
“Iron Chef?” I ask, settling onto the couch beside him.
He glances at me. “Is this okay?”
“Absolutely.”
His smile could power the entire resort.
I curl up next to him, and somehow—naturally, easily, like we’ve done this a thousand times—his arm comes around my shoulders. I fit against his side like I was made to be there.
The show plays on. He tells me about the chefs, explains the judging criteria, gets genuinely excited when someone pulls off a particularly impressive technique. “Look at that perfect sear.”
We settle deeper into the couch. Into each other.
It feels romantic in a way that has nothing to do with the fireplace or the rose petals or the honeymoon suite. It’s just…us. Watching TV. His thumb tracing absent patterns on my shoulder. I feel completely safe under his arm.
This is what it would be like, I think. If this were real. If we were just two people who chose each other. Quiet nights in. Cooking shows and comfortable silence. His arm around me like it belongs there.
The show ends. Another one starts.
Neither of us suggests moving.
At some point, I tilt my head up to look at him and find him already looking down at me.
The air changes.
His eyes drop to my lips.
He leans in.
Just slightly.
My breath catches.
Closer.
I can feel the warmth of him. My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t hear the TV anymore. And then, something flickers across his face. Some thought. Some reminder.
He pulls back.
Just an inch. But it doesn’t feel like the last time we almost kissed. There’s nothing cold about it. Just careful. Wistful. A moment held between us.
“You should probably get some sleep,” he says quietly, his breath brushing my skin. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Right,” I manage to breathe. I pull away and stand on unsteady legs. “You’re right.”
I cross to the door and pause. “Good night, Brody.”
“Good night.”
I step into the room and close the door behind me, leaning back against it, my head spinning. I press a hand to my cheek, my cool palm soothing against my scalding skin.
We’re playing with fire.
There’ve been too many close calls.
If we keep going like this, we’re bound to fall.
And neither of us can afford to fall, because in two days, we’re going to break up—disastrously, publicly, heartbreakingly.
And if we don’t? It’s not the first time the thought has crossed my mind.
I pull out my phone, swiping into the photos app, and find the screenshot I took of the contract clause.
Both parties agree to maintain the appearance of a genuine romantic relationship through all wedding events.
Upon completion of the Wedding (Event #4), both parties will execute a staged public breakup at the Wedding Reception (Event #5), with Party B (Chloe Dawson) initiating the breakup and Party A (Brody Kane) positioned as “at fault,” followed by a mandatory thirty-day no-contact period.
Any premature breakup, exposure of the contractual nature of the relationship, or other deviation from this termination plan will result in forfeiture of all benefits: Party A loses NHL contract renewal, and Party B forfeits all payment and owes financial penalties.
If we don’t break up, I lose all the money, and he loses…everything.
I turn off the light and head to bed.
Two more days.
We can do this.