Page 71 of Daddies on Ice

But wanting something and having it are different things. Sometimes the things we want most can hurt us most.

At 3:15 a.m., exhaustion finally pulls at my consciousness. As I drift off, Becky murmurs in her dreams, and I smile despite everything.

Morning arrives too soon with my phone’s chime and pale sunlight.

Becky sleeps deeply while I move quietly toward the bathroom.

Last night feels dreamlike, but my tender lips and Jake’s lingering cologne serve as real reminders.

Then something stops me cold. There on the tile in front of the door lies a manila envelope that wasn’t there last night.

Probably from Carl, last-minute materials that couldn’t wait. I tear it open, expecting paperwork.

But when I pull out the contents, my blood turns to ice.

Two 8x10 photographs slide into my hands. The first shows me and Jake on the dance floor, intimate and romantic. The second one captures me and Ash by the broken bus, in the exact moment his lips met mine. Crystal clear, leaving no doubt.

My hands shake violently as I lean against the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

Someone is watching me.

24

ASH

The hotel hallway stretches before me, dimly lit by the warm glow of Christmas garland wrapped around vintage-style sconces.

Each door bears a festive wreath, and the faint scent of pine mingles with the sterile hotel air.

My feet carry me toward my room on autopilot.

That’s when I see her.

Tish stands outside Jake’s door, her silhouette unmistakable even in the muted lighting.

Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, and she’s wearing that black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places.

Jake is right beside her.

I watch, dread filling every inch of me, as Jake opens the door. Tish only hesitates a moment before stepping inside.

The door clicks shut behind them with a finality that hits me like a punch to the gut.

Rational thought tells me this is all part of the plan.

The fake dating scheme we cooked up to salvage Jake’s reputation after his latest scandal.

But rationality doesn’t stop the jealousy from clawing at my chest like a wild animal.

The knowledge that it’s all pretend doesn’t make the image of them disappearing into his room together any easier to swallow.

My hands clench into fists at my sides. The Christmas music drifting from the hotel lobby below sounds mocking now, all jingle bells and holiday cheer while my world tilts sideways.

Every instinct screams at me to march over there and pound on that door, to demand answers, to pull her away from him.

But what right do I have? She’s not mine. Not really.

Sure, there’s been tension between us, moments where the air crackles with something electric, but we’ve never finished crossing that line.