Page 46 of The Pucking Date
“He caught me.” I meet his gaze. “And it was nice.”
He blinks, confused. “Nice?”
“Yeah.” My voice softens, but my resolve doesn’t. “I forgot what it felt like. To fly.”
The words hang in the frigid air between us, and for a moment, something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe even regret. But I don’t wait around to find out. Some flights are meant to be solo.
I push off and drift toward the far gate, away from his judgment, his disappointment, his rules.
Because I’m not twelve anymore.
And I’m done being handled.
10
GIRLS, GUILT, AND ICE CREAM
JESSICA
Bloomingdale’s in the morning has the energy of a luxury spa that collides with a fashion battlefield. The lighting is soft but strategic, designed to make every mirror brutally honest and every display table a gravitational pull you can’t resist.
It smells of money, ambition, and very expensive face cream.
Two hours in, the fifth floor had been thoroughly conquered. What started as a casual browse turned into a minefield of velvet hangers and increasingly questionable choices. Jenna disappeared into the beauty section and reemerged with a sixty-dollar Dior lipstick she swore was a necessity for Stanford interviews. Sophie lost her mind in the shoe department, cooing over a pair of satin heels until I reminded her that Liam would probably buy them for her if she so much as blinked in their direction. Erin swept through lingerie and activewear with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly what time she needed to be back to pack for her European tour.
The damage was impressive.
A crisp navy suit from Theory—tailored, sharp, lethal in the boardroom. A cocktail dress I absolutely did not need—sparkly, short, white, with enough stretch to make it dangerous. A pair of strappy silver sandals that clicked of confidence. Three new lingerie sets tucked into tissue paper and a signature brown Bloomingdale’s bag—one black, two unapologetically red.
The red wasn’t for anyone else, not even for Finn, no matter how many times my traitorous subconscious whispered his name when I’d held the lace up to the light. This was about me. About feeling powerful when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control. Slightly superstitious, maybe. A nod to the Chinese part of me that still clung to red envelopes, good luck charms, and the belief that bold color brings bold energy.
Mostly, I bought it because sometimes the only way to feel in control was to wear armor no one else could see.
The clerk had folded everything neatly, scanning me with that quiet approval women give each other when they know you’re buying armor disguised as lace and heels.
Sophie appeared beside me as I signed the receipt, her arms full of footwear.
“Tell me again you’re not planning to slay this summit.”
I simply smiled.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
And if I was going to war with sponsors, PR optics, and a dangerously charming forward with a voice that lingered in all the wrong places, I was damn well going to look good doing it.
An hour later, we’re sprawled in a marble-topped booth at Forty Carrots, surrounded by mirrored walls and clinking cutlery. The server cleared our salad plates, followed by thereal reason we’re here is finally making its entrance: four chilled bowls of frozen yogurt, two toppings apiece, and a communal extra of hot fudge.
“You needed this,” Sophie says, spoon halfway to her mouth. “You’ve been stress-dressing for weeks.”
“I dress fine,” I mutter, stabbing into my fro-yo.
“You dress like you’re prepping for a deposition,” Jenna adds, not unkindly. “A sexy deposition, but still.”
Rolling my eyes, I deadpan, “Excuse me for maintaining a standard of fabulousness while keeping the Defenders franchise out of hot water.”
Erin laughs softly, swirling her spoon through the fruit topping. “Okay, but let’s take a moment. Lingerie floor? We might’ve done the most damage there.”
I smirk. “Damn right we did.”
