Page 27 of Checking All Her Notes
We stop beside my car. He pulls me close, one arm around my waist, the other still holding my hand.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on the grumpy defenseman who broke your window.”
I smile against his chest. “Thank you for showing up when it mattered.”
“Always will,” he promises. “Even if it means playing ridiculous tiny instruments in front of the entire town.”
“Especially then.”
He laughs. Kisses the top of my head. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Never.”
We stand there in the falling snow, his heartbeat steady under my ear, my pulse finally matching his rhythm.
Somewhere between his bruises and my melodies, between broken windows and charity auctions, between pushing away and showing up, we found our own beat.
And it sounds perfect.
eight
. . .
I’m goingto die in a snowbank with a man who owns more flannel than cutlery.
This is my fate. This is how I go.
I’m standing in my driveway wearing a sweater dress, tights, and my nicest boots. The ones with the little heel that make my legs look good but offer absolutely zero traction on ice. Jude said “wear something warm but nice,” so naturally I imagined a candlelit restaurant. Maybe that Italian place in the next town over. Or the steakhouse with the fireplace.
Instead, his truck pulls up with a hockey stick visible in the back and a mischievous grin on his face.
“You said warm, not formal!” I call out as he gets out of the truck.
“I said warm and nice. You look nice.” His eyes travel down and back up. “Really nice.”
My face heats despite the cold. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.” He opens the passenger door for me. Actual gentleman moves. “Trust me.”
“Those are famous last words.”
He just grins wider.
The truck smells like his cologne and old coffee. The heater’s blasting but making a concerning rattling sound. There’s a duffel bag in the backseat and what looks suspiciously like a picnic basket.
“Jude.”
“Sophie.”
“Why is there a picnic basket?”
