Chapter 13
thirteen
brody
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
I lie on the sofa, my feet dangling off the end, blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at the ceiling beams while the fire crackles and pops and slowly burns down to embers.
Whoever picked out the furniture for the honeymoon suite obviously didn’t anticipate anybody sleeping on the sofa, because it’s about as comfortable as rocks, but I’ve slept on worse.
Airport floors. Team buses with broken suspension.
That hotel in Calgary where the heater died and we all huddled in our winter coats until maintenance showed up at three a.m.
This isn’t about the couch.
This is about the fact that Chloe is just on the other side of that door, sleeping in a bed covered in rose petals, completely unaware that I’m lying here having what Conrad would probably call an “emotional crisis.”
The dragon with the sad heart.
That’s what she called it. The grumpy dragon who keeps everyone out because he’s too scared to let anyone see the real him.
She sees me.
And for some reason, that doesn’t terrify me like it did.
In fact, I ache for it.
At some point, I give up on sleep. The fire has died down to glowing coals, casting barely any light.
I sit up slowly, quietly, muscles protesting the hours of contorting my body to fit onto the small couch.
But when I stretch, I can still feel the phantom warmth of her head against my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her, pulling her in.
I want to spend every night like that for the rest of my life.
The thought hits me like a body check I didn’t see coming.
Who are you kidding, Brody? The contract ends tomorrow, after the wedding reception.
After which, Chloe has to dump you…or you lose out on the money.
My chest tightens.
I need coffee. And air.
I grab my phone—6:17 a.m.—and slip out of the room as quietly as possible, pulling on my hoodie and shoes in the hallway. The resort is silent at this hour, just the hum of heating systems and the distant clatter of someone setting up breakfast in the restaurant downstairs.
The lobby is empty except for a young guy behind the front desk, who looks like he’s been up all night, scrolling through his phone with the glazed expression of someone counting down the minutes until shift change.
The massive fireplace is cold now, just ash and the smell of yesterday’s wood smoke.
I follow the signs to the coffee bar—a small counter near the restaurant entrance with an espresso machine that looks like it probably takes an engineering degree to use. But there’s also a regular coffeepot, thank you, and I pour myself a large cup. Black. Hot enough to burn.
“You’re up early.”
I turn. Derek is standing there in athletic gear, clearly just back from a run. Sweaty. But looking less hostile than usual, which is saying something.
“Right back at ya,” I say. “Wedding nerves?”
“Nope.” Derek pours himself coffee. Adds cream and sugar. We stand there in awkward silence for a moment, two guys who should probably be friends—teammates, after all—but aren’t.
“Listen,” Derek says finally. Turns to face me. “I owe you an apology.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“For what?”
“For being a jerk. About you and Chloe.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Maya and I were talking last night, and she sort of pushed back. Told me I was being weird and suspicious and probably too hard on you because of my own issues.”
“Your issues?”
Derek hesitates, glancing down at his coffee as though he’d like to drown himself in it rather than have this conversation. “Ashley Morrison is my cousin.”
I blink at him. “Wait—what?”
“Yeah. I’m the one who invited her to that charity event. She wanted to be an influencer, so I thought it might be good for her.” He takes a sip of his drink, glancing away. “Looking back on it, I probably could have seen it coming. They don’t call you Candy for nothing. You can be a charmer.”
I’ll try not to let that sting.
“And Ashley…” He grimaces. “I’ve always known she was…a lot. But when she told me about you, I believed her. Maybe because I wanted to believe the worst. Because it fit the narrative I already had about you.”
“What narrative?”
“That you coast on talent and good looks and your stupid smile. That you’re a player.”
My mouth sort of twists at that.
He takes a drink of his coffee. “But seeing you with Chloe the last few weeks, I’m starting to think maybe I was wrong.” He pauses, and something gives in his expression. A weight between us lifting. “I hope so.”
My throat tightens.
“So”—Derek extends his hand—“truce?”
I shake his hand. “Truce.”
He meets my eyes. “Don’t prove me wrong.” He releases my hand. Nods. Then leaves, taking the stairs two at a time.
And I’m standing there with my coffee, my stomach knotting. Don’t prove me wrong.
When I get back to the room, Chloe’s awake. She’s sitting on the edge of the sofa in black leggings and an oversized cream sweater with a red heart on the front. Hair pulled into a messy bun. No makeup. Looking soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurts.
“Hey,” she says, her voice still rough with sleep. “Where’d you go?”
“Coffee run.” I hold up both cups. “One boring mocha latte for you, made by yours truly. I apologize in advance—it’s not a candy cane mocha, just plain ol’ milk and chocolate sauce swiped from the breakfast bar.”
“Please. You don’t do anything halfway.”
She takes the cup like I just handed her the Holy Grail. Takes a sip. Closes her eyes and makes a sound that probably shouldn’t be legal before seven a.m.
“This is perfect. Thank you.” She takes another sip, cradling the cup in both hands. “How’d you sleep?”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It was fine.” Aside from the part where I didn’t sleep. But I can’t tell her that. Not without admitting that it was the thought of losing her in twenty-four hours that had me lying awake all night.
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me but isn’t going to push it. “Well, thank you. You’re a real gentleman.”
The morning light is stronger now, streaming through the windows and making the lake visible—patches of ice and dark water, pine trees framing the view.
“Want to go for a walk?” I ask. “Before the wedding chaos starts?”
“You read my mind. I need to move before Maya finds me and starts panicking about something.”
We grab our coats—hers a puffy jacket that makes her look tiny, mine the standard wool coat I use all winter—and we head downstairs together, coffee cups in hand like we’re a normal couple doing normal couple things.
The lobby is starting to wake up. A family with small kids heading toward breakfast. An older couple reading newspapers by the fireplace that’s been relit. The smell of bacon and coffee drifting from the restaurant.
“Excuse me?” A woman’s voice stops us near the entrance. “Are you Chloe Dawson?”
We turn. She’s maybe forty, dressed in a way that’s giving off a covert-professional vibe. Slim jeans, sweater, expensive boots. Holding a tablet and wearing a press credential on a lanyard.
“Yes?” Chloe says, sounding uncertain.
“I’m Jennifer Hartley, from Minnesota Bridal Magazine.
I’m here to cover the Dawson–Munson wedding.
” She’s smiling, friendly. “Felicity Grant mentioned you’re the event planner who planned not only the wedding but also the prewedding events?
I’d love to chat with you about your business while I’m here.
Get your perspective on what makes a great wedding. ”
Chloe’s eyes widen. “Oh. Um, yeah. Sure. I’d love to.”
Jennifer’s gaze falls on me. Studies me for a moment. “Oh my goodness, you’re—”
“Brody Kane.” I extend my hand. “I’m with Chloe.”
The words come out before I can think about them. I’m with Chloe. Not “I’m her date for the wedding.” Not “We’re seeing each other.” Just…I’m with her.
It feels right.
“Oh!” Jennifer’s smile widens. “I’d heard you two are dating. What a great story—the event planner and her hockey player. Would you both be willing to sit for a quick interview?”
Chloe looks at me. I nod. Why not?
“Sure,” Chloe says.
We end up in a corner of the lobby, sitting in leather chairs arranged around a coffee table.
Jennifer pulls out her tablet, opens a recording app, and launches into questions.
I settle in, ready to face the usual onslaught I’ve come to expect during interviews—anything to get me off-kilter, reveal something I didn’t want to share.
But today, I’m not being asked anything.
Jennifer seems focused entirely on Chloe.
Which feels weird, but I’m not complaining.
“So tell me about your business. How did you get started in event planning?”
Chloe sets down her coffee cup. Takes a breath. And starts talking.
And I watch her transform.
Gone is the nervous, self-deprecating woman who apologizes for taking up space.
Instead, she’s confident. Passionate. Talking about how she started planning events for her family, Maya’s engagement party, the bridal-cation, how she learned to see what people really wanted versus what they thought they should want, how every event tells a story about the people at the center of it.
“The best weddings aren’t about perfection,” she says, gesturing with her hands in that animated way she has when she’s excited.
“They’re about authenticity. About creating moments that feel true to the couple, not just true to Pinterest boards and wedding magazines. ” She pauses, then grins. “No offense.”
Jennifer laughs. “None taken. That’s a refreshing perspective.”
“I think people get so caught up in the performance of weddings—the Instagram photos, the perfect details—that they forget to enjoy the day. To be present with each other and their loved ones.” Chloe leans forward.
“My job isn’t to create magazine-perfect events.
It’s to create events where people feel seen and celebrated for who they really are. ”