“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my chair, stretching out my legs like I belong here. “You said you needed to talk to me. So what’s this about?”
Her gaze flickers away, like she’s trying to collect her thoughts. Then she takes a breath and looks back at me, leveling me with a stare. “It’s a game. Truth or . . . truth.”
“Truth or truth?” I echo, smirking. “Why do I want to play that? I don’t see any benefits.”
“You’ll benefit from getting to know the person you’re going to marry a lot better,” she states.
“So, you’re not giving me an out this time?” I ask. “No dares with some previews of those pretty nipples or?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “We’re supposed to get married tomorrow, Ledger. You’re practically a stranger. It’s time we learned something about each other.”
There’s something about the way she says my name—soft but steady—that makes my chest feel tight. I don’t like it. Or maybe I do. Hell, I don’t know anymore. This is too fucking confusing.
“Fine,” I say, sitting up straighter, elbows on my knees. “You start.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a hockey player?”
The question blindsides me. “What?”
“You heard me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Aiden told me. Apparently, you’re some hotshot NHL player, and somehow, I had to find that out from my best friend and Google, instead of you.”
I run a hand through my hair, torn between irritation and amusement. “I’m a former hockey player. No reason to tell you what I was.”
“Don’t deflect,” she fires back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal.
“Ledger,” she says, exasperated. “It’s part of who you are. How does it not matter? You had a successful career. The injury must have been devastating.”
It was devastating, but I don’t like to talk about that with anyone. I let out a long breath, my fingers tapping against my knee. “It’s not exactly something I talk about much anymore. I got hurt last year—badly. The kind of injury that takes you off the ice and leaves you questioning everything. So no, I didn’t tell you. Not because I was hiding it, but because it feels like . . . I lost it all.”
Her expression softens a little, and it bothers me how much that look gets under my skin. I don’t want her pity.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That must’ve been hard.”
“It was,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. “But I’ll live.”
The room feels heavier after that, the fire crackling as if to fill the silence. Then she clears her throat and straightens. “Your turn. Truth or truth.”
I smirk. “You’re giving me no choice here, so fine. Truth. Why didn’t you call Chase to marry you? Or whatever guy you dated after him?”
Her fingers tighten around the mug, and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then, finally, she sets it down and looks at me. “I didn’t . . . I told you then. Our relationship had been over for a long time. I did love Chase, but I wasn’t in love and I’m sure it was the same for him. Once I came back and tried to reach out to get some explanation, I learned he was already dating someone new. Did he find her before we broke up?” She shrugs. “Who knows and I really didn’t care to find out.”
I watch her, the firelight catching in her hair, and something in my chest shifts—something I can’t name.
“And any dates after?” I press.
She shakes her head. “No one seemed . . . good enough. I wanted someone I could sit down and talk about everything with. I wanted that connection I thought we—” She suddenly stops and looks at her mug.
“Who isweand what connection are you talking about?” I press, irritation threading through my voice.
“It’s my turn,” she says, undeterred. “Why are you single? I saw the pictures of the women you dated. All beautiful and successful.”
I scoff, leaning back as if the couch itself might help me keep my distance. “I already told you. I don’t believe in marriage, not even relationships. Those pictures are just publicity.”
Her lips twitch into something between a smile and a smirk, like she sees through me. “But you’re marrying me,” she points out.
“Yeah, but it’s fake,” I reply quickly, maybetooquickly. Like I’ve rehearsed it. Like it’s the answer—simple, clean, easy to swallow. But it’s not. None of this is.
