Chapter Thirty-Four
Descent
Clare
First class feels different on the way back. Less like an adventure and more like a countdown to the end of something I wasn’t ready to let go of.
Mitch settles into the seat beside me with the easy confidence of someone who hasn’t spent the night staring at the ceiling, waiting for something that never came. He looks rested. Relaxed. Like a man who made the smart choice and slept soundly because of it.
Lucky him.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, stowing his carry-on with those efficient movements I’ve watched him make a dozen times this weekend.
“Like a baby,” I lie, accepting the coffee the flight attendant offers with a smile that feels painted on.
“Good. Long day ahead.”
Right. Long day. Back to reality, back to professional boundaries, back to pretending I don’t know exactly how his hands feel mapping my skin or the sound he makes when I slip my hand into his boxers.
Cool.
The plane taxis away from the gate, and Minneapolis disappears beneath us in a blur of white and gray. I press my face to the window, watching his hometown shrink into memory, and try to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest.
“Regrets?” he asks, following my gaze.
“About what?”
“The whole weekend. Playing fake girlfriend to a hockey player.”
There’s something careful in his voice, like he’s testing the waters. Like maybe he’s wondering if I’m going to make this awkward now that we’re heading back to the real world.
I turn to face him, channeling every ounce of professional composure I’ve ever possessed. “None. Your family’s wonderful. Your mom’s going to send me Christmas cookies for the rest of my life.”
“She will. Fair warning.”
“I can live with that.”
What I can’t live with is the way he’s looking at me—fond, amused, but carefully distant. Like I’m already relegated to the friend zone, filed away under ‘nice weekend, glad we kept it professional.’
Except we didn’t keep it professional. Not even close.
“Sophie’s going to miss you,” he says, pulling out his phone to show me his photos.
“I’ll miss her too.”
“She asked if you’re coming for Easter.”
The casual comment hits harder than it should because for a split second, I let myself imagine it—another trip to Minnesota, another weekend of belonging somewhere, being part of something warm and real.
Another chance to wait for him to make a move that never comes.
“What did you tell her?”
“That we’d see.”
We’d see. Not ‘I’ll ask Clare’ or ‘that’s up to her.’ Just the diplomatic non-answer of someone who’s already mentally filing this under ‘temporary.’
“Smart,” I say, turning back to the window.