Page 15 of Misbooked for Love

But when I step inside, she’s there, sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She looks up when I enter and her cheeks flush slightly, but her expression remains guarded, and I can see the wall she’s put up, the one I’m starting to recognize all too well.

“Hey,” I say, my voice rough and gravelly. I drop my jacket on the back of a chair, my movements stiff, awkward, like I don’t know how to fit in this space anymore.

“Hey,” she replies, and the room is filled with a heavy, deafening silence. She closes her laptop and fiddles with the edge of her sweater, her fingers twisting the fabric like she’s trying to keep herself from unraveling. “I didn’t mean to just…leave like that earlier.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, though we both know it’s not. “I shouldn’t have?—”

“Let’s not,” she cuts in, her voice tight, and I can see the flicker in her eyes—fear, maybe, orregret, or something she’s not ready to name. “We don’t have to…”

“Oh, but we do,” I say, because I can’t just let it go. Not when she’s right here, looking at me like she’s waiting for something, like she’s just as lost as I am. “Clara, we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening.” The words come out more urgent than I mean them to. “Whatever this is, whatever we’re doing, we need to figure it out.”

She looks at me, her eyes searching mine, and for a moment, I think she might agree. But then she shakes her head, her expression crumbling into something pained. “I don’t want to be that girl, Tom. The one who gets caught up in something she knows isn’t hers to have.”

I flinch, her words hitting harder than I expect. “You’re not?—”

“Am I?” she interrupts, her voice breaking, and suddenly all that bravado is gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that guts me. “Because I don’t even know who you are, really. I don’t know who you’re talking to on the phone or what you’re trying to get away from. And you don’t know me either, not really.”

She’s right. I don’t know anything about her, but I might just know enough. I know the way she laughs when she’s nervous. The way she lights up when she talks about something she loves. The way she looks atme like she’s afraid of what she might find. And I know what it feels to want her, even when I shouldn’t.

“Go to dinner with me,” I blurt, the last bit of desperation finally bubbling up my chest. “Tonight.”

“No,” she replies, her eyes firmly on me. “I already told you I’m not going to be that girl.”

“I didn’t plan for this,” I admit, my voice dropping, and it’s the closest I’ve come to being honest about how much she’s gotten under my skin. “I didn’t plan for you.”

Clara stands, crossing her arms over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I didn’t plan for you either,” she says quietly, and there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that makes my chest ache. “And now I don’t know what to do.”

I take a step towards her, closing the gap between us. She doesn’t move, doesn’t back away this time. We’re close, too close, and I can feel the pull again, the way everything else seems to fade when she’s near.

“Give me a shot,” I whisper, my hand reaching up to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing against her skin. “Just…”

She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, it’s like everything else falls away. The uncertainty, the doubts, all of it fades into the background, leaving just us, tangled up in something that is totally undefined.

“I can’t,” she whispers against my hand, and her eyes flutter as the words spill out.

“Clara,” I say with a sigh. “Just dinner. I mean, we don’t know anyone else in this town. Might as well enjoy a meal together.”

She tilts her head and looks at me in the eyes, her eyes blinking rapidly, but the silence around us stretches. It’s almost as if I could hear her thoughts, her brain going through every scenario and an imaginary list of pros and cons immediately. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“So?”

“I don’t know.” She’s hesitating, and I understand why. This is temporary. We’re here for a limited amount of time and we definitely didn’t plan for this. I wanted to come up with a plan for a career switch—maybe a nonprofit that works to rehabilitate retired horses to use them for therapy or to give them a second chance at a fulfilling life after they’re done with their athletic stints.

“It’s just dinner,” I say as I take a step back, tucking my hands into my pockets. “And I’ll tell you all about my horses.”

“Okay,” she says, and it’s just one word, but it’s enough.

For now.

11

CLARA

I stareat my reflection in the mirror, trying to convince myself that I haven’t completely lost my mind. The soft glow of the lamp casts a warm light on my face, and I swipe on another coat of mascara, hoping it will mask the uncertainty lingering in my eyes.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Going to dinner with Tom on Valentine’s Day feels reckless, impulsive—like stepping off a ledge without looking at what's below. When he asked, something in his voice pulled at me, and after thinking it through, I said yes. But resolved that nothing would come out of it, just a nice dinner with the excuse that it’s Valentine’s Day and no one wants to be alone on such a disgustingly romantic day.

Now, with my hair curled loosely around my shoulders and a simple red dress hugging my curves, I feel exposed in a way I didn’t expect.

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