Page 6 of Perfectly Complicated
The song is slow, something country and sweet, and suddenly we’re moving together in a gentle sway that doesn’t require any special steps. Even when I step on his toes, he pretends not to notice. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the music, the white lights strung around the rafters making his face glow.
“My favorite thing about this place is that they keep Christmas lights up year-round,” I say, nodding toward the twinkling strands above us.
“Huh.” His eyes narrow as he follows my gaze. “It’s the one thing I would change about this place.”
“Change…why?” I ask.
“I don’t really love Christmas.” He says this as a matter of fact, like he’s admitting to not liking puppies. Or sunshine. Or the concept of joy itself.
My smile falters as I stop swaying. “What? I love Christmas.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered by my reaction. “Sure. But all that forced cheer? Not my thing.”
“Forced?” I repeat. “Not all of it is forced.”
“Come on,” he says with that charming smile, which doesn’t quite reach his eyes now. “You can’t tell me all that ‘most wonderful time of the year’ stuff is genuine.”
Part of me wants to argue with him, to defend something I hold sacred. But another part of me—the part that’sstill attracted to his dark eyes and the way he stepped in to save me—wants to ignore thismassivered flag.
That’s exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble before.
“Hey, Rourke!” one of the guys near the back hollers. That’s when I notice that all the guys at his table are wearing matching logos on their hoodies and jackets. They’re from the Carolina Crushers—the local hockey team.
Of course, he’s a hockey player.
“Already making your move on a new woman, huh?” the guy adds.
And that’s the last straw.
Whatever was happening between us vanishes instantly. I notice women at nearby tables watching us with the kind of look that makes my stomach knot. I don’t want to compete for a man. And I’ll never be someone’s second choice again.
“You’re a hockey player for the Crushers?” I ask, my stomach sinking.
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a hint of pride in his voice now, like this answer usually is the right one. “Defenseman.”
And there it is, the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. A Christmas-hating hockey player who probably has women lined up in his phone.
I step back abruptly. “I really need to go.”
His brow furrows. “Janie, wait—will I see you here again?”
“Probably not,” I say. “I’m…” I can’t say “a mom”because he probably hates babies too. “Too busy.”
“Well, maybe I’ll run into you sometime?”
I shake my head. “Sorry…probably not.”
“Why not?” He looks genuinely hurt, like he’s replaying the last few minutes trying to figure out what went wrong.
And I hate that I’m the one saying no—especially when every other woman here would probably say yes. But I got caught up in his charm before doing my due diligence, which leaves me nochoice but to be blunt. “Because we’re fundamentally incompatible.”
He stares at me like he doesn’t get it. “What…how?”
“Well, for one, because you don’t like Christmas. And I love it more than anything.”
He blinks. “Wait,that’syour reason?”
“Yeah, and if you don’t like that…” I shrug helplessly. “Then you’d hate a huge part of who I am.”
