“Mitch—”
“I know.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I know this is complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it.”
But she still doesn’t step back. If anything, she leans closer, her palms resting against my chest. I can feel her heartbeat through her sweater, fast and unsteady.
“This is supposed to be fake,” she whispers.
“Yeah.” I lift one hand to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing across her skin. “How’s that working out for you?”
Her breath hitches. “Terribly.”
“Good. Because it’s killing me too.”
The admission hangs between us, honest and raw. I should take it back, should laugh it off as part of the performance. Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn by gravity, desire, and something deeper I’m not ready to name.
“Your family’s inside,” she says, but her eyes drop to my mouth.
“They are.”
“They might come looking.”
“They might.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably the worst I’ve ever had.”
But I’m still moving closer, and she’s still not stopping me. Her hands fist in my shirt, and I can feel the war she’s fighting—logic versus desire, professional versus personal, safe versus the terrifying possibility of something real.
“Clare—”
The garage door rattles, and we spring apart like guilty teenagers. Evan walks in with Sophie and four-year-old Jaketrailing behind him, the kids bundling into the garage like tiny tornadoes in winter coats.
“Dad said we could help!” Sophie announces, making a beeline for the sled pile.
“Careful, Soph,” Evan says, but his eyes dart between Clare and me with knowing amusement. “Mom wants to know if you found the good sleds.”
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice only slightly strained. “Found them.”
Clare’s cheeks are flushed, and she busies herself adjusting bindings that don’t need adjusting. “These should work fine.”
“Can I try one?” Jake asks, tugging on Clare’s sleeve with the fearless confidence of a four-year-old.
“Of course,” Clare says, her voice softening as she crouches down to his level. “But we need to make sure it’s safe first, okay?”
Watching her with my nephew does something to my chest that I’m not prepared for. She’s patient and gentle, treating his question like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Great.” Evan’s eyes dart between us again. “I’ll let Mom know we’re almost ready. Kids, come help me grab the thermoses from the kitchen.”
After he leaves, silence settles over us, thick and loaded. Clare still won’t look at me directly.
“That was—”
“A mistake,” she finishes quickly. “We got caught up in the moment. Playing our parts.”
Right. Our parts. Because this is all performance, all pretend. Even when it feels more real than anything I’ve experienced in months.