Page 37 of The Dating Coach
Panic fluttered in my chest. This was too much, too fast, too dangerous. I stepped away, wrapping my arms around myself. "Can we just... can we pretend this was part of the show? Shutting down my ex, playing the protective boyfriend? You were very convincing."
Something shuttered in his expression. "Right. Convincing. That's what I was going for."
The rest of the gala passed in a blur. We maintained appropriate couple distance, but the easy intimacy from earlier was gone, replaced by careful politeness. When he drove me home, the silence stretched between us like a living thing.
At my apartment door, I turned to thank him for the evening, for the performance, for defending me. But he caught my hand before I could speak.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I meant every word. Devon is an idiot who lost the best thing that ever happened to him. And someday, when you're ready to believe it, I'll still be here."
He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles that somehow felt more intimate than our desperate gala kiss. Then he was gone, leaving me standing in my doorway with my heart racing and my carefully constructed walls in ruins.
Inside, I found Karen waiting with wine and expectant eyes. "Tell me everything," she demanded.
But as I recounted the evening – Devon's cruelty, Liam's fierce defense, the kiss that felt like claiming – I found myself focusing on that final moment. The quiet promise in his words, the patience in his eyes, the suggestion that he'd wait for me to catch up to what he already knew.
"Oh honey," Karen said when I finished. "You're so fucked."
Chapter 18: Gemma
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The practice problem in front of me blurred as I tried for the fourth time to balance a simple oxidation-reduction equation. Two days until the makeup exam, and my mind had chosen now to abandon me completely.
"Maybe we should take a break," Liam suggested from his spot across his bedroom floor, where we'd spread out notes and molecular models in what Henry called "organized chaos."
"I don't need a break," I snapped, immediately hating myself for the harsh tone. "I need to remember how to count electrons like a functioning human being."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him studying me. One week had passed since the gala—a week of careful distance and unspoken truths. We'd maintained our tutoring schedule, but something had shifted. Every accidental touch felt loaded, every shared laugh tempered by awareness.
"Gemma," he said gently. "You know this material. You've aced every practice test for the past week."
"Practice tests aren't real tests," I muttered, erasing my work so aggressively I tore the paper. "Real tests are in a room full of people where Professor Hartley watches and judges and—"
"And where you'll do exactly what you've trained to do," Liam interrupted. "Just like swimming. You don't forget how to do a butterfly stroke just because it's a meet."
"This is different."
"How?"
"Because I could never fail at swimming!" The words exploded out of me. "Swimming makes sense. The water doesn't change its mind or trick you with similar-looking problems. It's just physics and muscle memory and—"
"And organic chemistry is just patterns and logic," he countered. "Which you understand better than anyone I know."
I laughed bitterly. "Right. That's why I'm here, isn't it? Because I'm so naturally gifted at organic chemistry."
"You're here because one bad test taken under extreme stress doesn't define your abilities," he said firmly. "And because sometimes even brilliant people need support."
"I'm not brilliant," I muttered, but his words loosened something in my chest.
"Come here," he said, patting the space next to him. "Let me show you something."
I moved reluctantly, careful to maintain distance as I settled beside him. He pulled out his phone, scrolling to what looked like a voice recording app.
"What's this?"
"My pre-game ritual," he said, hitting play.
His recorded voice filled the room, calm and steady: "You've prepared for this. Trust your training. Trust your instincts. The crowd doesn't matter. The scouts don't matter. Just you and the ice and what you know you can do."
"You record pep talks for yourself?" I asked, oddly touched.
