Page 24 of Misbooked for Love

“Well, today’s the day,” I say, a grin tugging at my lips. “We’ll make it happen.”

She tilts her head, studying me for a moment like she’s trying to read between the lines. “You’re really cramming it all in, huh?”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, even though she’s nailed it. I am cramming. I’m cramming every damn second because I don’t want this to end. “Just making sure you get the full winter wonderland experience,” I joke, but there’s an edge to my voice that I can’t hide. I have no idea how it happened or when, but she’s so far under my skin that it might take surgical precision to remove her.

Clara doesn’t push, but there’s something in her eyes—a softness, a knowing—that makes my chest tighten. She reaches across the counter, her hand resting on mine, and it’s such a simple gesture, but it grounds me. “Thanks,” she says, gesturing with her other hand, “for all of this.”

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like there’s too much I want to say and not enough time to say it. “Yeah, of course.”

We finish our coffee in silence, the kind that’s become second nature to us, and I steal glances at her from across the island. I want to memorize everything—the way her nose scrunches up when she’s thinking, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, the sound of her voice when she says my name. It’s pathetic how much I’ve come to depend on these little things, and I’m not ready to let them go.

The rink is empty when we arrive, no families or couples gliding across the ice. Clara’s eyes widen as she takes it all in, her excitement palpable, and it makes me smile. Seeing her like this—carefree, happy—makes everything worth it. Even if this was not the original plan and it was just happenstance… it feels right.

We rent skates and lace up at one of the benches by the ice, and I can’t resist teasing her as she fumbles with the laces. “Need some help, rookie?”

Clara shoots me a playful glare, her lips curling into a smirk. “I’ve got it, Mr. Athlete. Just…give me a minute.”

I chuckle, watching as she finally manages to tighten her skates, her fingers working the laces with determination. She looks up at me, a triumphant grin on her face, and I lean down to press a quick kiss to her lips.

“Ready?” I ask, offering her my hand.

She takes it, her grip firm but hesitant, and we step onto the ice together. At first, Clara wobbles, her legs unsteady as she tries to find her balance, and I tighten my hold on her, guiding her along the edge of the rink.

“Okay,” she mutters, her brow furrowing in concentration. “This is harder than it looks.” She stumbles on the ice and reaches out her free hand to grab onto the side wall, a quick flash of panic on her face. “How are people just…doing this?”

I laugh, steadying her as she stumbles again. “It’s all about finding your center of gravity. Keep your knees slightly bent, and don’t lean too far forward.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” she grumbles, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. She wobbles again, and I catch her before she can fall, pulling her against my chest.

Clara looks up at me, her face inches from mine, and there’s that spark again—the one that’s been igniting between us since the moment we met. It’s impossible to ignore, and I wonder, for the first time in a long time, how I’m going to survive without this.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper, and she nods, her determination kicking in. We start to move slowly, gliding across the ice in a rhythm that feels natural, like we’ve done this in tandem a hundred times before. Clara’s laughter fills the air, bright and unrestrained, and I join in, the sound wrapping around us like a warm blanket.

We spend a few hours at the rink, skating until our legs ache and our faces are numb from the cold. But it doesn’t matter, because every second with Clara feels like a gift I didn’t know I needed, or that even existed. And when we finally collapse onto the bench, breathless and laughing, I realize there’s no turning back from this. Because I’m starting to fall.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Clara says,grinning as she unlaces her skates. “I might be a natural.”

“You’re a lot of things,” I tease, nudging her shoulder, and she rolls her eyes, but there’s a blush creeping up her cheeks that she can’t hide.

We grab hot chocolates from a nearby stand and sit by the plaza’s fireplace, watching as the sun starts to dip behind the mountains, casting everything in a warm, pink light. It’s perfect—too perfect—and I can feel the ache in my chest growing, knowing this won’t last.

Clara leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. “I never thought I’d be doing this,” she says, her voice soft. “This was so unexpected and so far from what I planned.”

I nod, staring out at the mountains, my thumb rubbing lazy circles on her covered shoulder. “Yeah.”

We sit there, wrapped up in each other and the dwindling daylight, and I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her that I’ve never felt this way, that she’s changed something in me that I didn’t even know was broken. But the words stick in my throat, too big and too messy to say out loud.

So instead, I kiss the top of her head, letting the moment speak for itself, and for now, it’s enough.

17

CLARA

The villa feels different today,like it’s holding its breath. There’s a stillness in the air, a heaviness that settles in my chest every time I catch Tom’s gaze. We’ve been dancing around this inevitable goodbye for days, pretending it’s not right around the corner, but now it’s here, staring us in the face. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone before the sun is up, and I’ll be left with nothing but memories of these strange, wonderful twelve days.

I try to push the thought away as I step out of the shower, the steam clinging to the bathroom mirror, blurring my reflection. I wrap myself in a towel and pause, staring at the foggy glass. My heart feels like it’s caught between two worlds—one where I’m withTom, and another where he’s just another chapter in my story, one that ends tomorrow morning.

I pull on a sweater and some leggings, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. When I walk into the living room, Tom is already there, sprawled out on the couch with his laptop open, probably checking emails or catching up on work. He looks up when he sees me, his eyes lighting up with that soft smile that’s become so familiar.

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