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“I didn’t come here for therapy,” I mumble.

Gisele shrugs. “Sorry. Free of charge. And non-refundable.”

We both laugh, and the sound is lighter than anything I’ve let out all week. I stare down at my chipped nail polish and try to imagine what it would be like to just…be brave. Tell him everything. Not just with Saran Wrap signs or coasters or doodles but with actual words.

“I don’t know how to not be scared,” I admit.

“Then be scared,” Gisele says. “But still do the thing.”

I glance toward the window, where the last streaks of orange sky fade to dusky purple. Somewhere out there, Brogan’s probably eating leftover pizza and watchingSportsCenter, blissfully unaware that the girl he’s been kissing might just be planning her own emotional jailbreak.

“I think I do love him,” I whisper. “Like real love, not puppy love.”

“I know you do,” Gisele replies. “Just don’t wait too long to let him in on the secret.”

And just like that, I realize the biggest sign isn’t on a rock, or a water tower, or wrapped around a sign at Miner’s Arena.

It’s the one pounding in my chest.

And it’s all his.

I just hope he knows how to read it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brogan

I’m not a place that likes to keep secrets, but lately, every streetlamp and signpost is trying to whisper one. By the time dawn cracks over Miner’s Arena, clear plastic glints on the sign outside Miner’s Arena, and tire tracks are stamped through fresh snow. Word travels fast here, especially when it involves love notes and a certain Foster boy. Before the coffee’s even brewed, the regulars are already taking bets—was it the bartender, the TikTok queen, or just plain old magic with huge boobs? One thing’s for sure: around here, romance always comes with a side of chaos, and nobody’s getting away clean.

Playlist: Stuck Like Glue by Sugarland

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee, freezing my balls off, and trying not to take it personally that the Miner’s Arena sign now looks like it got gift-wrapped by a pastry chef on Red Bull.

“Shep,” Bennett says, squinting up at the monstrosity, “is that fucking Saran Wrap?”

I follow his line of sight, and yep—clear as day, the whole bottom row of letters is shrink-wrapped several times over.

Shep whistles low and long. “Whoever your secret admirer is gets props for ingenuity.”

I bite back a smile and stuff my hands deeper in my jacket. I should be annoyed, but I’m not. I should be weirded out, but... yeah, still not.

“I’m not cleaning that shit up,” Virgil grumbles as he lumbers out of the arena, wearing his usual expression of mild homicide. “I’ve got better things to do than peel cling wrap off sentimental nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Gage offers. “It’s dedication. Or possibly a nervous breakdown. Either way—romantic.”

Virgil shoots him a death glare. “You’re all dead to me.”

“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” Bennett chirps.

Virgil flips him off and keeps walking, mumbling something about “jackasses on ice” and “quitting this damn job to be a crash test dummy.”

I hang back, staring at the sign, trying not to let the grin tug too hard at my mouth. The message underneath is obscured, but I don’t need to see it to know what it says. Hell, I knew the second I saw the cling wrap that is definitely stored in the supply closet we have christened. Twice.

Joely.

Has to be.

And somehow, instead of feeling freaked or cornered, I feel... seen. Like every time I doubt myself, she’s been out here with a damn ladder and a message, trying to prove me wrong.