Page 31 of Cross Check Hearts

But would it really be so terrible to see him again? To explore whatever this is between us?

Yes. It would. Nothing good could come from mixing my real life with this fantasy.

But I can’t just leave him like this without saying something. I tear off the first piece of paper and crumple it, then drop it in my bag. My brain goes into overdrive trying to come up with something that isn’t too revealing but also not too vague, but I come up empty… until finally, something clicks into place and the pen starts move across the paper again.

Thank you for a night I’ll always remember, but I have to fly away.

— Hummingbird

I sign the note with the nickname he gave me when he first saw my tattoo, rather than the fake name I gave him. It feels right somehow—a small, precious piece of truth in a night built on anonymity.

Before I have the chance to second guess myself again, I tear off the note and set it on the nightstand next to the face mask I won’t be needing anymore. Then I tiptoe over to the door, but I can’t stop myself from stealing one last glance at him, his strong, sculpted chest illuminated by the dim lights of the room.

I try to drink in the details, to commit this moment to memory so that I’ll never forget it.

Then I slip out and close the door as quietly as I can.

Chapter16

Hannah

The fresh air and bright sunlight that hits my face as I throw open the double doors of the law school feels like pure freedom. That test was grueling, easily one of the most difficult ones I’ve ever had to take, and that’s saying something. Everyone warned me going into it that law school is no joke, but I still underestimated just how hard this was going to be. And this wasn’t even a final exam or anything.

“Hannah, wait up!” Stevie calls, and I stop on the big staircase to wait for her. When she catches up with me, she blows out a breath and brushes her long, curly hair over her head. “Jesus, that was intense, but I think I nailed it. How do you think you did?”

I shrug. “I did the best I could. I guess we’ll see.”

“We should go celebrate or something. I mean, I know it wasn’t the most consequential test we’ll ever take or anything, but I’m still excited.”

I smile at her and mentally thank the universe I have an excuse not to go. Stevie is a good friend, but I’ve never had the same enthusiasm for the law that she has, and it’s getting harder every day to keep faking it, especially when she’s clearly doing better at all of this than I am. The gap between who I’m supposed to be and who I actually am feels wider every day.

But I don’t have the guts to tell her—or anyone—that.

We initially hit it off because we were both fresh on campus and thought we were going to change the world with our law degrees, but lately, I’m not even sure I’m going to make it to graduation, much less the bar exam.

“I’d love to, but I have to teach a couple of yoga classes tonight and I don’t even have time to get something to eat,” I tell her, and she frowns at me. “I know, I’m sorry. Can I take a rain check?”

“Maybe I should take some classes at your yoga studio. I’d see you more often.”

“I have spots open if you’re serious.”

Stevie smiles at me. “I was kidding. No offense, but yoga’s not my thing. But don’t let me keep you from your eager students. We can hang out some other time.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ll text you later,” I tell her and keep moving down the stairs to get to my car in a hurry.

“Get something to eat!” she calls after me, and I wave to acknowledge her, even though I wasn’t kidding when I told her I don’t have time.

My first yoga class is in thirty minutes, and it’s going to take me almost that long to get to my car and drive across town to the studio. I don’t even have time to stop at a fast-food place or a convenience store for something quick, so it’ll just have to wait until after.

For what feels like the first time in my life, traffic actually cooperates, and somehow I make it to the studio with about ten minutes to spare before class starts. Several of my students are already on their mats waiting for me, and I wave to them on my way to the locker room to change.

But when I step back out, there’s a delivery person hanging out by the front desk.

“Can I help you?” I ask, and he holds up a small white paper bag from a local restaurant.

“Are you Hannah Dunaway?”

“Yeah, why?”

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