Page 10 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

"This is not going to fit," Henry declared, staring at Karen's third suitcase with the expression of a man facing an impossible physics problem. "The laws of spatial dynamics are working against us here."

"Then we'll bend the laws," Karen shot back, attempting to stuff what appeared to be a portable hair salon into my already packed SUV. "I have needs, Henry. Wilderness needs."

"We're going to my family’s cabin, not the actual wilderness," Frank said, eyes never leaving his mobile game as he sat among the coolers in the back. "There's running water and electricity. Even WiFi."

"Barely WiFi," Karen countered. "What if I need to livestream our inevitable lost-in-the-woods disaster?"

I leaned against the side of the car, ostensibly supervising but really watching Gemma orchestrate the chaos with quiet efficiency. She'd already reorganized half our supplies, creating space where none existed, all while keeping Mia's spirits up with gentle teasing about her overpacked book bag.

"No one needs five books for a weekend," Gemma was saying, though her smile took any sting out of the words.

"Says the person who packed organic chemistry flashcards," Mia retorted. "For a vacation. A literal vacation from studying."

"It's not a vacation, it's a strategic retreat," Gemma corrected, but she was laughing.

"If you two are done debating the definition of vacation," I interrupted, "we should probably hit the road before traffic gets worse."

"Shotgun!" Karen announced, then caught Gemma's look. "What? I get carsick in the back. It's a medical condition."

"That you developed thirty seconds ago?" Gemma asked dryly.

"I'm very delicate," Karen insisted, already climbing into the passenger seat. "Like a flower. A flower that needs front-seat access to the aux cord."

Which is how I ended up driving with Karen commanding the music, Gemma behind me where I could catch glimpses of her in the rearview mirror, and the others crammed in with our embarrassment of luggage.

Frank had somehow ended up with a cooler on his lap, which he'd named Wilson and was treating like a traveling companion.

"Road trip rules," Karen announced as I pulled onto the highway. "Driver controls speed, shotgun controls music, and everyone else controls their complaints."

"That's not—" Henry started.

"Shh," Karen interrupted. "Music Queen is speaking. First up, we're starting with the ultimate road trip playlist, carefully curated for maximum sing-along potential."

What followed was an eclectic mix that ranged from classic rock to pop hits to show tunes. By the time we hit an epic six-minute rock anthem, even Gemma was singing along, her usual careful control abandoned in favor of dramatic head movements during the guitar solo.

"Car headbanging style!" Frank announced, and suddenly everyone was moving their heads in unison, except for me because I preferred not to die in a fiery crash.

"You're no fun, Delacroix," Karen accused, then immediately launched into an uplifting power ballad with enough enthusiasm to make up for my lack of participation.

I caught Gemma's eye in the mirror during the chorus, and she grinned at me – wide and unguarded and absolutely beautiful. The sight hit me like a check into the boards, sudden and breathtaking. I almost missed our exit, too distracted by the way happiness transformed her face.

"Earth to captain," Henry called. "Exit 42, remember?"

"I know where I'm going," I said, taking the exit perhaps a bit faster than necessary.

"Do you though?" Frank asked. "Because that looked like the driving of a distracted man. A man distracted by—"

"Wilson," I interrupted. "You should make sure Wilson is secure. Wouldn't want your cooler friend getting injured."

"Don't bring Wilson into this," Frank said, clutching the cooler protectively. "He's innocent."

The drive to the cabin took three hours, made longer by Karen's insistence on stopping at every "quirky" roadside attraction she spotted.

We now had photos at a giant wooden moose, a disturbingly large ball of twine, and something that claimed to be the world's smallest church but looked suspiciously like an outhouse with a cross on top.

"This is definitely cursed," Mia decided at our latest stop, examining a sign for "Mystery Spot – Where Gravity Doesn't Apply!"

"Everything's cursed to you," Gemma said, but she was smiling as she said it. "Last week you said the library coffee machine was cursed."

"It only accepts exact change and makes demonic noises," Mia defended. "If that's not cursed, what is?"

"She has a point," I said, earning a grateful look from Mia and an eye roll from Gemma.

"Don't encourage her," Gemma said, but she was fighting a smile. "She already thinks your house is haunted because the pipes make noise."

"All old houses are haunted," Frank interjected. "It's part of their charm. Henry's room is definitely haunted by the ghost of someone who died of boredom."

"Hey, my room is tastefully minimal," Henry protested.

"Your room looks like a prison cell," Karen said.

The good-natured bickering continued as we got back on the road, the afternoon sun slanting through the windows and turning everything golden. I found myself relaxing in a way I rarely did, the constant pressure of expectations and performances falling away mile by mile.

"Turn here," Frank called from the backseat, waving his printed directions like a battle flag. He refused to trust GPS in the mountains, which meant we'd been following his hand-scrawled notes for the past hour.

The cabin materialized through the trees two miles down the winding dirt road like something out of a storybook – log construction with a massive stone chimney, wraparound porch, and windows that reflected the surrounding forest. It belonged to Frank's family but rarely got used outside of summer.

"Holy shit," Karen breathed. "This is not a cabin. This is a lodge. This is where rich people come to pretend they're roughing it."

"My parents like their comfort," Frank said, somehow managing to shrug despite Wilson still on his lap. "Wait until you see the hot tub."

"There's a hot tub?" Mia perked up. "Gem, you didn't mention a hot tub."

"I didn't know about a hot tub," Gemma said, shooting me an accusatory look like I'd been holding out on her.

"I didn't know either," I defended. "Frank just said 'cabin in the woods.' This is... not what I pictured."

We piled out of the car, everyone eager to stretch after hours of confinement.

The forest air was crisp and clean, scented with pine and the earthy smell of fallen leaves.

Gemma tilted her face up to the sky, breathing deeply, and I had to force myself to look away from the elegant line of her throat.

"Dibs on the master bedroom!" Karen announced, already racing for the door.

"There is no master bedroom," Frank called after her. "They're all equally nice!"

"Then dibs on the nicest equal room!"

The interior was even more impressive than the exterior – soaring ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace that dominated one wall, and furniture that managed to be both rustic and obviously expensive.

Windows everywhere brought the forest inside, making the space feel both cozy and boundless.

"Okay, rooms," I said, trying to be practical even as everyone scattered to explore. "We've got three bedrooms, so—"

"Mia and I can share," Gemma said quickly. "Karen can have her own room since she apparently needs space for her portable salon."

"It's not a salon, it's basic grooming supplies," Karen defended from somewhere upstairs. "I found my room! It has a bear theme! Everything is bears!"

"I'll take the couch," I offered.

"Frank and I can share," Henry said. "We've roomed together at away games in worse conditions."

"Remember that motel in Buffalo?" Frank shuddered. "I'm pretty sure those weren't bedbugs. I think they were evolved bedbugs. Possibly sentient."

"They were definitely plotting something," Henry agreed.

Once the sleeping arrangements were settled, we spent the next hour unpacking and making ourselves at home.

I fought the urge to think about Gemma just down the hall—what she’d look like waking up, hair tousled, eyelashes heavy.

Yet the simple rhythms of shared domestic life—cooking dinner side by side, playfully squabbling over board games, inhabiting the same space without hidden agendas—brought a comfort I hadn’t felt in years.

“Who knew Liam could cook?” Karen teased, watching me slice vegetables with steady precision as we prepped for dinner. “You’ve got hidden talents, Delacroix.”

“Everyone should know how to feed themselves,” I replied, glancing over to see Gemma whisking the salad dressing. “My mom made sure I learned before college.”

"Smart woman," Gemma said. "I had to teach myself from online cooking videos and nearly burned down my first apartment twice."

"Twice?" Mia looked horrified. "You never told me about the second time."

"Because you would have told Mom, and I'd never have heard the end of it." Gemma's face did something complicated at the mention of their mother. "Besides, the fire extinguisher worked. Eventually."

I filed that information away – Gemma had taught herself to cook, probably along with a dozen other life skills her parents should have provided. It fit with everything else I'd learned about her, this fierce independence born from necessity rather than choice.

Once dinner was ready, six of us squeezed around a table built for four, passing plates and talking over one another in joyful chaos.

Frank regaled us with his theory that all woodland cabins were connected by a secret underground network of tunnels used by cryptids.

Henry tried to bring logic to the conversation but gave up when Karen supported Frank's theory with enthusiasm.

"That's why you should never whistle in the woods," she said seriously. "It's like ringing a dinner bell for Sasquatch."

"Sasquatch is a Pacific Northwest cryptid," Mia corrected. "Here we'd have to worry about the Jersey Devil."

"But we aren’t in South Jersey," Gemma pointed out.

"Cryptids don't respect state boundaries," Frank said solemnly. "They're lawless creatures."

I caught Gemma's eye across the table, both of us fighting laughter at the absurd turn the conversation had taken.

She looked relaxed in a way I'd never seen before, the constant tension she carried softened by safety and silliness.

When she smiled at me – soft and private amid the chaos – I felt that dangerous warmth in my chest expand further.

After dinner, we migrated to the living room where Frank introduced Mia to his collection of deliberately terrible movies he'd brought. While they debated the merits of various B-movie monsters, I found myself beside Gemma on the couch, hyperaware of every inch between us.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For this. For including Mia. For..." She gestured vaguely at the room full of laughter and terrible movie quotes. "Everything."

"It's not entirely altruistic," I admitted. "I wanted to spend time with you outside of chemistry lessons and crisis management."

She turned to look at me, something unreadable in her eyes. "Why?"

The honest answer – because I was falling for her, because she fascinated me, because I wanted to know every facet of who she was when she wasn't fighting to survive – stuck in my throat. Instead, I said, "Because you look happy. I like seeing you happy."

Color rose in her cheeks, and she looked away. "I am happy," she said, like it surprised her. "I can't remember the last time I just... existed without worrying about the next crisis."

"Then we'll have to make sure you get more chances," I said, the words coming out more intense than I'd intended.

She looked at me again, and the air between us shifted, charged with the same electricity that always sparked when we got too close. For a moment, I thought she might say something, might acknowledge what was building between us despite all our careful boundaries.

"Movie's starting!" Frank announced. "Everyone prepare yourself for 'Mega Squid vs. Giant Crab'!"

The moment broke, but the awareness remained.

As terrible special effects filled the screen and our friends provided running commentary, I let myself imagine this was real – that we were together, that these people were our chosen family, that happiness like this could be more than a weekend escape.

When Gemma's head eventually drooped onto my shoulder as the second movie played, when she didn't pull away but settled closer with a small sigh, I held perfectly still. The weight of her against me, the trust implicit in her relaxation, felt like a gift I didn't deserve but couldn't refuse.

"I know you're awake," she murmured, so quiet only I could hear.

"So are you," I whispered back.

"This is nice," she said, and I felt her words more than heard them. "Pretending everything's simple."

"Maybe it could be," I suggested carefully. "Simple, I mean."

She was quiet for so long I thought she might have actually fallen asleep. Then, soft as a sigh: "Nothing about my life is simple, Liam. And you... you complicate everything."

Before I could respond, before I could tell her that complicated was okay, that I wanted all her complexities, Karen announced it was time for midnight hot tub adventures.

The moment shattered as everyone moved at once, and Gemma slipped away to get changed, leaving me with the phantom warmth of her against my side and the echo of words unsaid.

As we all piled into the hot tub under a canopy of stars, as laughter echoed through the night and Karen attempted to start a water war, I caught Gemma watching me. The look in her eyes – wondering, wanting, wavering on the edge of something – gave me hope.