Page 87 of Icy Pucking Play

"Hey, Evan?"

I turn back.

"Don't screw this up again." Brad's voice is serious. "Some stories are worth fighting for."

He's right.

Some stories are worth everything. Even if you have to risk everything to tell them. I pull out my phone one last time, dialing her Cynthia's number.

"Hello?"

“Hey, Cyn. I think I’m only supposed to use this number for emergencies, but…is, um, Sophie there?"

A pause. "Why?"

"Because I need to tell her something. Before dinner. Before Clark…"

"Before Clark tells her what really happened with Chelsea?"

My blood runs cold. "How did you…"

"Because she's my best friend. And because she's been crying over you for days." She sighs. "But you're too late. She already left for the restaurant."

I check my watch. Seven-thirty.

"Thanks," I say, already running for my truck.

Because maybe I am too late. Maybe I've ruined everything. But maybe...

Maybe some stories deserve a better ending. Even if I have to write it myself.

Chapter 22

Sophie

Giovanni's is exactly the kind of restaurant that should've set off warning bells.

The kind of place where the maître d' looks at my carefully chosen black dress like he knows it's from last season's clearance rack. Where crystal wine glasses catch the low lighting, creating shadows that make everyone look like they're plotting something. Where private tables hidden by velvet curtains whisper of deals and secrets and things better left unsaid.

I smooth my hands over my skirt, wishing I hadn't let Cynthia talk me into heels. They make me feel like I'm playing dress-up, trying to look more sophisticated than I am. More like someone who belongs here.

Clark Ellis certainly belongs here. He rises as I approach our table, every inch the successful agent in his perfectly tailored suit and Italian leather shoes. His smile is practiced, polished— and the kind that never quite reaches his eyes.

"Sophie." He gestures to the chair a server pulls out. "You look lovely. That dress is..."

"Last season," I finish dryly, feeling even more self-conscious. "I know."

"Charming." His smile sharpens slightly. "Direct. Just like your writing."

I settle into my seat, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the multiple forks laid out before me or the wine list longer than my feature drafts. The velvet curtains partially screening our table from view make everything feel intimate and almost conspiratorial.

This is definitely dangerous.

"You look nervous," Clark observes, gesturing to my untouched wine. "Not your usual scene?"

"I prefer places that don't require a mortgage downpayment for the appetizers."

He laughs like I've said something charming instead of borderline rude, but there's an edge to it. There’s a calculation in his eyes that reminds me why I'm really here. Why I shouldn't be here at all.

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