Page 106 of The Pucking Date
“I’m a guy, Jess. I know the moves. You think I didn’t catch the way he was holding you? Like he earned you? “
The words hit like a physical blow. Because yes, he did earn me. Not with charm or swagger, but by showing up every single time I ran. By catching me when it counted. By loving me when I couldn’t love myself.
And I threw it all away. The heat surges—sharp, indignant, impossible to contain. “What now, you gonna ground me?” I bite out, fury and despair curling tight in my chest. “Not allowed to be alone with a boy?”
Dad’s eyes frost over. “Not withthatboy. He’s here to score goals. Not my daughter.”
Sophie chokes on her drink. “Wow. Okay. Can we all please check our calendars and note that it isn’t 1954?”
“Great logic,” I fire back, steamrolling right through Sophie’s sarcasm. “You know what’s actually infuriating? That I can’t choose anyone. Not one guy. Because every man I work with treats me like I’ve got a biohazard sticker on my forehead thanks to your big ‘hands-off-my-daughters’ locker room decree. So forgive me if I’m not thrilled that my romantic prospects are reduced to swiping through finance bros on Tinder.”
Dad stiffens. “That wasn’t to punish you. It was to protect you. Most of these guys? They’re looking for one thing. They’re not good enough.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, right. And Chad was? Ivy League. Runs Daddy’s firm. Pedigree straight to the Mayflower. That guy was a walking résumé, and rotten to the core.”
“Liam’s good enough,” Sophie squeaks.
Adam lifts his glass. “Yeah, he slipped through, that scoundrel. And from the looks of it…” He cuts a glance my way. “History’s on a loop.”
Dad’s eyes flash. “Not this time.”
I short-circuit. “Your son’s one of those guys, Dad.”
The air snaps tight. Adam’s brows lift, caught between offense and ‘oh shit.’ “Whoa. I’m standing right here, people.”
Mom, calm and surgical, cuts in. “Mark. The table.”
Adam sighs, already rising. “Come on, Dad, it’s time to retreat before Mom cross-examines us under oath.” As he ushers Dad inside, he throws me an exasperated, questioning look.
They disappear into the house, and the silence they leave behind is deafening. I sit there, trembling, dangerouslyclose to complete collapse. I look away, tears pooling in my eyes. Whatever just broke inside me is still echoing.
Mom sets her glass down and reaches across Sophie to brush a strand of hair from my face. Her fingers are cool. She’s done this a thousand times, held the edges of me together before I even realized I was coming apart.
“You want to tell me what that was?” she asks, words soft but cutting.
I don’t mean to shatter. But the sob rips out of me before I can stop it—raw, ugly, the sound of something vital breaking. My chest caves in, and suddenly I can’t breathe around the weight of what I’ve lost.
Sophie shifts beside me, her hand landing on my knee. Mom stands, walks around the swing, and lowers herself onto the other side, so I’m tucked between them. She drapes an arm around my shoulders, steady and warm. I press my palms to my face and let out a jagged laugh. “I fucked it up.”
Mom speaks softly. “Start from the middle, girlie. And skip the PR spin.”
I draw a shaky breath. “I fell for him,” I whisper. “Hard. The charming Southern boy with the easy drawl and all the right moves. No matter how many times I tried to talk myself out of it.”
“She’s right, Mom,” Sophie adds. “That man’s weaponized swagger.”
Mom lets out a soft laugh. “I’ve seen him work a room. Finn O’Reilly could sell ice to a polar bear.”
“I told myself I was being smart,” I say, the words tearing out of me. “That if I didn’t let him in, I could control it. Keep it light, keep it casual. But I never stood a chance.” My chest heaves. “He swept in with that crooked smile, that drawl that melts your spine. God, I tried to hold the line.”
A sob breaks loose.
“So I’d fall into bed with him. Every time. And every morning, I’d wake up with my heart in my throat, my dignity between my ankles, and bolt before he could see me unravel. Before it could become something.” I huff out a laugh, bitter and low. “And I thought if I left first, I was the one in control. That I could walk away clean.
“But he never let me go easy. He kept showing up. It didn’t matter how many times I left, he was always there, steady, waiting for the moment I’d let him close again.” A breath. “And then one morning...I stayed.”
Mom’s smile tilts, just a little. “You know, your father wasn’t so different. There was a time I thought I’d have to beat him off with a stick.”
I huff out a laugh. “You sure that would’ve worked?”
