Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Dax watches me from across the room, pink hearts strung from the ceiling blink behind him.
I don’t look at him.
That feels safer.
“You’re going to turn that cookie into crumbs,” he says.
I snort. “That’s the goal.”
He comes closer anyway. Of course he does. He always does. Pulls up a chair, spins it backward, straddles it like he owns the space—and maybe me, if I’m being honest.
“Talk to me, Red.”
I exhale hard. “I am talking.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m coping.”
He arches a brow. “Since when?”
I finally look at him, annoyed despite myself. “Since always.”
His mouth curves, but there’s tension under it. He’s been wound tight since earlier, since the lights, since whatever cracked between us the moment this snowstorm hit the town.
Good. Let him be uncomfortable too.
I gesture with the cookie. “You know what the worst part is?”
He waits.
“The letters didn’t just make me feel… wanted,” I say. “They made me feel brave.”
That gets his attention.
“They made me feel like I wasn’t ridiculous for wanting more,” I continue. “Like I didn’t have to apologize for dreaming. For hoping.”
His jaw tightens.
I don’t stop.
“He saw me. Really saw me. The parts I don’t show customers. Or the town. Or even you.”
The words slip out sharper than intended.
Dax doesn’t interrupt. He never does when I’m like this. He just listens, eyes dark, hands flexing around the back of the chair.
“It wasn’t just flirting,” I say quietly. “It was… care. Thoughtfulness. He remembered things. Asked questions. He made me feel cherished.”
My throat tightens.
“Like a real prince charming,” I add, forcing a laugh. “Stupid, right?”
Dax exhales slowly.
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“No,” he repeats. “It’s not stupid to want to be chosen.”
Something in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
I stare at him. “You sound like you know that line.”
He freezes.
Just for a heartbeat.
“I mean,” I say, warming to the confession now that it’s spilling out, “who writes things like that anymore? He told me—”
I pause, smile turning soft despite myself.
“He told me, ‘You don’t have to work to be chosen. You already are.’”
The words hang in the air.
Dax doesn’t even hesitate.
“You are,” he says quietly. “You always have been.”
My smile dies.
Because that wasn’t what I said.
That was the line.
The exact line.
My heart stutters.
I laugh once, breathless. “That’s funny.”
He doesn’t move.
“Dax?” I whisper.
He swallows.
Slowly, carefully, like he knows the world is about to tilt.
“…It was you?”
The room goes silent except for the storm.
I stare at him. Waiting. Daring him to deny it.
He doesn’t.
“Rory—”
“You wrote them,” I say, standing abruptly. “You wrote the letters.”
“Yes.”
The word lands like a punch.
“You—” I choke on a laugh. “You let me talk about him. To you.”
“I know.”
“You asked me if I thought it was love,” I whisper. “You sat there and listened while I told you things I’ve never told anyone.”
“I didn’t plan for it to go that far.”
My hands shake. “You planned enough.”
He stands too, closing the distance before I can retreat. His voice stays calm. Grounded. Like he’s bracing for impact.
“I never lied in those letters.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Isn’t it?” he fires back softly. “Everything I wrote was true.”
My chest aches.
“So you just… what?” I demand. “You pretended to be someone else because you were too scared to be yourself?”
“Yes.”
The honesty disarms me.
“I was afraid you’d look at me and see only your best friend,” he says. “I was afraid I’d lose you if I crossed that line.”
“You crossed it anyway.”
He nods. “I know.”
I turn away, pressing my hands to the table. “You don’t get to decide what I feel.”
“I didn’t,” he says. “I just stopped hiding mine.”
That snaps something.
I spin back to him. “You manipulated me.”
“I loved you,” he counters. “I loved you before the letters. I loved you during them. I love you now.”
My breath catches.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Why?” he asks. “Because it makes this real?”
I step back. He follows.
“I trusted him,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“And he was you.”
“Yes.”
My eyes burn. “You took something from me.”
He shakes his head. “I gave you all of me. I just didn’t think you’d want it if you knew it was mine.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then I laugh—sharp, broken. “You’re unbelievable.”
His mouth tilts. “You’ve always said that.”
I shove his shoulder. He barely moves.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I was going to,” he says quietly. “Tonight.”
“After I got stood up?”
He flinches. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I was waiting for him,” I say. “And he was standing right in front of me.”
The hurt hits then—full force.
I hate that my voice cracks.
“I would’ve said yes,” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “I know that now.”
That does it.
I push past him toward the hallway, needing space, needing air—but he catches my wrist gently, firmly.
“Rory.”
I jerk my hand free. “Don’t touch me.”
He stops instantly. Puts his hands up.
“Okay,” he says. “I won’t.”
The restraint wrecks me more than anger would.
“I don’t know how to feel,” I admit. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he says. “I’m asking you to see me.”