Page 17 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

CHAPTER EIGHT

Luke

Snowflakes drift lazily through the early December sky when we exit my apartment building, swirling under the glossy historic streetlamps. I hurry toward the double-parked limo, aware of Sebastian’s presence behind me.

We scramble into the limo. Black cameras face us, and I stare at them uncertainly.

“They’re not on yet,” Sebastian says, his voice calm. “You need to, um...”

I turn to him.

He’s not as close to me as he was inside the apartment, but I don’t miss the way he sweeps his gaze over me, and I don’t miss his frown.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Snow!” he blurts. “You have snowflakes on you.”

I dab my tux uncertainly, and white flecks melt into the expensive black wool.

“May I?” he asks, his voice low like one of those string instruments played at fancy charities.

I nod, then his fingers brush over me again, and he moves his hand through my hair. He leans back. “There. All done.”

“No snowflakes?”

“You’re perfect.” His eyes widen, but I know what he means.

I look at the cameras. Sebastian has already briefed me on what will happen.

“I’ll add a voice over,” he says, his voice low. “No point having you talk when we’re driving through city traffic. Too unpredictable. I just want to get some B-roll now of you.”

“O-okay.” My heart stutters.

He smiles. “It’s okay for you to look nervous. You might be meeting your future spouse.”

I blink, and for some strange reason I think he means himself and I want to tell him we already met.

I also want to tell him we met long ago. Maybe he’ll laugh and exclaim, and we’ll talk about Ashcove. But he was different back then, less dazzling, even though he always drew my attention. His body was softer, his limbs more gangly, his clothes plainer, more printed t-shirts from cardboard boxes at Goodwill than designer tux.

My forehead must be scrunched up or something, because he says, “the women.”

“Women?”

He gives me a what-the-hell, I-guess-hockey-players-are-as-intellectually-challenged-as-I-assumed look. “Think about the ten women.”

“Right. Lots of women. Cool.”

He gives me a funny look but doesn’t say anything. “So don’t talk and look nervous.”

“Easy.”

He smiles and flicks the cameras on while I lean into the trepidation that swoops around me and settles into each cell.

“Now look more intrigued,” he says, and I try to rearrange my features into something that resembles excitement, even though my heart beats unsteadily, and my veins leap and jump, the way they sometimes do before big games. The surge of adrenaline doesn’t come that I normally feel when I’m about to get on the ice, the excitement that I’m going to do my favorite thing, be challenged in new and interesting ways, and that I might improve my record or even get my first NHL hat trick.

Maybe I’ll live happily ever after with one of the women I’m going to meet tonight, but when I try to visualize forever and always with a beautiful woman, all I see is dull gray and murky brown, and my veins skitter even more than before.

The limo slows, and I realize we’re on Commonwealth Avenue.