Page 90 of The Pucking Date
She watches the mom strap the boy in the stroller and scoop up the little girl, eyes following them until the door swings shut. An emotion runs over her features—softness, maybe sadness. It’s gone before I can name it.
“You ever think about it?” I ask, keeping it casual. “Kids?”
She hesitates, then turns to me. “Sometimes.”
I nod slowly. “I love kids. Always have. But being a dad?” I rub the back of my neck. “That’s a whole different game. Not sure I’d be any good at it. My dad wasn’t exactly a role model before everything went to hell.”
She studies me silently.
“I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out,” I add quickly, feeling the sudden shift in the air. “Maybe one day. Maybe adoption. But if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’d get it right.”
Something flickers across her face—pain, maybe panic. Like I just said exactly the wrong thing.
She drops her eyes, voice carefully neutral. “You’re barely thirty. Plenty of time to figure it out.” But her tone sounds final, like a door closing.
She tugs my hand before I can push deeper into dangerous territory. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.” She’s quiet the rest of the way to the next shop, lost in thoughts I can’t read.
The boutique she leads me to is all warm wood and soft lighting, the kind of place that smells like sandalwood and relaxes you the second you step inside. We wander for a bit, then she stops near a small display in the back.
“Look,” she says, pointing. “These are made by a local artist.”
Leather bracelets—simple, hand-braided, silver clasps. Nothing flashy. Clean and masculine.
I glance at the display, then at her. “Doesn’t really look like Sophie’s style. You thinking for Adam?”
She shakes her head, already reaching for one. Brown leather, soft but sturdy.
“This one,” she says, slipping it off the stand.
Before I can react, she takes my wrist and fastens it, quickly tightening the clasp.
“There,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over the leather, eyes lifting to meet mine. “Now you’re marked, Carolina.”
I stare at her. Wishing I could rewind the moment. Make sure I heard her right.
She’s finally claiming me. After months of running, of keeping walls between us, she’s choosing to mark me as hers.
It hits hard.
I clear my throat. Steady my voice.
“Took you long enough.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush pink.
“Shut up,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling.
And maybe it’s just a bracelet. But it feels like everything.
20
TRY ME
JESSICA
We land at LaGuardia just after four. The late September air is cool, with that clean-edged sharpness that means summer’s finally giving up. Our driver’s already waiting, and Finn takes charge without asking, grabbing my suitcase, nodding a thank you, tossing both our bags into the trunk. Like we do this all the time.
We don’t.
