Page 40 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Keep telling yourself that," he says, with that maddening confidence. "So, I'm taking you for ice cream."

"Great." The sarcasm doesn't quite land, betrayed by the anticipation humming through me.

He starts cleaning up the food from the table, and I help, stealing more fries while I'm at it. The simple domesticity of the moment strikes me—this shared task, this easy silence. It's nothing like the carefully choreographed dates with Cade, where everything felt like it had to be perfect.

"Is it your mom or your dad?" he asks suddenly, and the question throws me off.

"What?"

"Tell me, is it your mom or your dad who you have the difficult relationship with?" His eyes are serious now, searching.

I'm caught off guard by the insight behind the question. These are the kinds of conversations I love—deep, meaningful—but I don't love that he's the one asking them. It feels like he's seeing too much, peeling back layers I'm not ready to expose.

"Who are you rebelling against with your amazing morals?" There's no mockery in his tone, just genuine curiosity.

I chuckle, surprised by how easily he's read me. "My mom." I think about her for a moment, and it’s not that we have a horrible relationship, but she’s fake, doesn’t mind lying, and manipulates to get her way.

He shrugs. "Can't relate."

"Your dad then?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

He nods, a shadow crossing his face. "But it's my mom and dad for Cade."

"Wow." I absorb this new information, this glimpse into their family dynamics that Cade never shared. "He never mentioned that."

Sanderson puts the last thing in the trash and says, "He wouldn't. He's too proud. He'd claim nothing was happening."

"That's interesting," I say, watching him carefully. Did I find my mother in Cade?

There's a depth to Sanderson that I never expected, a perceptiveness that catches me off guard.

"If you wanted to be with him, he'd take you back," he says, and I can't tell if it's a warning or a test.

"You think so?" I ask, not sure why I'm even entertaining the idea.

"Hell yeah. Probably wouldn't cheat for a year or two, and then he'd pick it right back up."

"What’re you a fortune teller?"

He shrugs, but I catch the vulnerability that flashes across his face before he masks it. "You have to know how the enemy operates to avoid being bit."

"Okay," I mutter, but I understand now—his cavalier attitude toward relationships, his reputation with women. It's armor, protection against becoming the thing he seems to despise most. He is a lot deeper than I anticipated.

"So, that ice cream?" He holds out his hand, an invitation, a question.

I stare at it for a moment, at the calluses on his palm from hockey sticks and weight rooms, at the strength in those fingers that were so gentle against my skin earlier. Taking his hand means stepping off a cliff, diving into something I can't control, can't plan for, can't neatly organize into my life.

Chapter 12

She stares at my outstretched hand like it might bite her. I almost pull it back, thinking I've overstepped again, but then she takes it. Her hand is smaller than I expected, soft against my calluses from years of hockey sticks and lifting weights. The contrast makes something twist in my chest.

"Fine," she says, her voice quiet. "But I'm not going inside anywhere. I don't want to be seen."

The words sting a little, but I get it. This whole situation is complicated enough without adding public speculation.

"Fair enough." I keep hold of her hand as I push the door open with my shoulder. "Drive-through it is. My car's just outside."

We walk to my car in silence, the night air cool enough that I notice her slight shiver. Without a word, I shrug out of my hoodie and hold it out to her.

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