Chapter 12

Noelle

The way York Steele wears gray sweatpants should be a meme… though not a funny one. Maybe a GIF on Tumblr or one of those sites where women browse for hot guys, admiring the kind of specimen that makes you stop and stare. Actually, I bet if I Googled "York Steele," a ton of swoon-worthy photos would pop up.

And I should know. I’ve got my own secret folder on my laptop, filled with pictures of him that I may or may not have saved over the years. But none of those photos, none of the magazine shoots, or the candid snaps of him at games, comes close to what I’m seeing right now.

York, in front of me, in those gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, is a whole new level of breathtaking. It’s like someone took all the best parts of him—the chiseled jawline, the strong arms, that unfairly perfect athletic build—and amplified it in the glow of my kitchen’s dim light. It feels like he’s straight out of a dream, like he was sculpted by some higher power just to torment women like me.

I’m frozen, gripping the fridge door for dear life as I stand here in my sweats and tank top, feeling ridiculously underdressed for this encounter. It’s late, and we’ve both been pretending all day, but here he is, looking better than ever without even trying.

I’m not sure if he realizes the effect he has on me. Or maybe he does. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than normal, and I feel the heat rising to my cheeks. I try to act casual, like I’m not inwardly freaking out over how unfairly attractive this man is, but it’s hard. Really hard.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice low and rough, and just the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine.

“No,” I manage to reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “A lot on my mind.”

He nods, his eyes still locked on mine. “Yeah. It was a rough day, ya know?”

I nod, like that makes sense, but really, all I can focus on is how close we are in the quiet kitchen. The tension between us is thick, the air buzzing with something unspoken. We’re supposed to be pretending, but right now, with the house so still and no one watching, it feels like everything is real.

Too real.

And as he steps toward the fridge to get his drink, I can’t help but feel the electric charge between us. It’s been there all night, simmering just beneath the surface, but now it’s unavoidable. The room feels smaller, more intimate.

He inches closer, so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My heart stutters in my chest, every nerve in my body buzzing with anticipation. It feels like he’s going to kiss me, like he’s about to close the small gap between us and make every fantasy I’ve ever had about him come true. My breath catches as I tilt my chin up, waiting for him to make a move, ready for it.

Hoping for it.

But instead, he clears his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. "Excuse me," he whispers, his voice low and rough, but there’s no heat behind it. No promise of a kiss. Just polite, awkward distance.

Mortified, I step back, my heart sinking into my stomach. Of course, this god-like creature doesn’t want me. What was I thinking? I’ve been deluding myself all night, imagining sparks between us that were never really there. I’m just Noelle, the coach’s daughter. Someone he has to tolerate for the sake of this ridiculous fake dating arrangement.

I move aside, clutching the counter like it’s a lifeline, trying to steady myself and hide the wave of embarrassment flooding through me. My cheeks burn, and I can’t bring myself to look at him as he reaches for the water bottle. My stomach twists with humiliation, realizing how stupid I must have looked, waiting for something that was never going to happen.

York moves past me, the space between us now feeling painfully wide, though I can still sense his presence like a shadow lingering in the room. He doesn’t say anything else, and I’m grateful for it. Any words right now would just make it worse. I focus on the cool surface of the counter beneath my fingers, trying to ground myself, trying to shake off the sting of rejection.

But it’s hard.

Because no matter how much I try to tell myself that this is just pretend, that York Steele would never be interested in someone like me, it doesn’t change the fact that, for a moment, I thought he was. And that brief flicker of hope? That’s what hurts the most.

“I’m heading back to bed,” I blurt out a little too quickly, desperate to escape the tension that’s still clinging to the air like static. “Night.” Without waiting for his reply, I rush down the hallway, my heart thudding in my chest. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment, and I just need to get away before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

Once I’m in the safety of my room, I fling myself onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow for a second before I grab my phone. I don’t even hesitate. I pull up Annabelle’s contact and start typing furiously.

Me: I don’t know why I thought fake dating my crush would be a good idea.

I hit send and stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I wait for her reply. It doesn’t take long.

Annabelle: Not going well?

Me: I don’t know, but I felt like there were sparks earlier. And now I feel ridiculous.

Annabelle: Explain.

Taking a deep breath, I pour out the whole story. The sleigh ride, the way York looked at me like I was the only person in the world, the way my heart practically stopped when he stepped so close just now in the kitchen. I leave no detail out, describing how I thought for sure he was going to kiss me, only for him to step around me like I was in his way. It felt like a slap in the face.

When I’m done, I clutch the phone to my chest, waiting anxiously for her response. Annabelle’s always been the one to give it to me straight, and right now, I need that more than ever. My thoughts are swirling, and I’m second-guessing every single interaction we’ve had today.

The phone buzzes, and I glance down, my stomach knotting.

Annabelle: Looks don’t lie. Look at how into you he is.

She sends a photo, one of the paparazzi shots that I hadn’t seen yet. It’s York and me holding hands on the sidewalk earlier today. His eyes are on me, his expression soft, and there’s this almost stupidly adorable smile on his face. A part of me wants to believe it means something. That he’s not just pretending.

But I know better than that.

He’s an actor in this, same as me. And sure, he can turn on the charm. I mean, he’s York Steele, for crying out loud. A smile like that doesn’t mean he’s in love. It means he’s playing the part, doing his job, keeping up the act for the cameras and the public.

I stare at the photo, my heart aching with how perfect it looks. God, if only it were real.

Me: I don’t know, Annabelle. He’s so…polite. Like I’m just his friend’s daughter. I’m not sure he’d ever see me as anything more.

Annabelle: Girl, you’re blind if you don’t see the way he looks at you. Guys don’t look like that if they’re not into you.

I shake my head, trying to push down the creeping hope. It’s dangerous to hope for something that isn’t real, but there’s that small, insistent part of me that’s whispering maybe. Maybe there’s more to this than I think. Maybe the way he looked at me wasn’t entirely an act.

But I can’t let myself believe it. Not when he could have kissed me, but didn’t. Not when this whole thing is supposed to be pretend.

I toss the phone aside and bury my face in the pillow again, wishing it didn’t hurt so much.

The next morning, I shuffle into the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee pulling me in. My mother has the holiday music playing, as usual. The familiar tune of Jingle Bell Rock floats through the air, her favorite this time of year. It’s been on repeat for as long as I can remember. The house feels warm and festive, the smell of Christmas and pine mixing with the music to create that unmistakable Christmas vibe.

“Morning!” she sing-songs, her voice bright and cheerful, like she’s been up for hours already. “Want some breakfast?”

I glance toward the stove, where pancakes and bacon sizzle. My stomach grumbles, but I’m more in need of caffeine than food at the moment. “Where’s Dad and York?” I ask, reaching for the coffee pot on the counter, the need for a strong dose of it undeniable after a night of restless sleep.

“They went down to the rink,” she replies, waving a spatula in the air like it’s no big deal. “Early practice, I guess.” She shrugs, flipping a pancake with precision.

Of course they did. It’s barely eight a.m., and York’s already off being his usual superstar self. I should’ve known. He’s always been disciplined, the early bird who gets the worm or, in this case, perfects his skating before anyone else even gets out of bed. It’s probably one of the things that makes him so good at what he does.

I take a sip of coffee, the warmth spreading through me, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness from last night. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, about the way York was so close, about the moment that never happened. It’s been gnawing at me, and I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t talk to someone.

“Mom,” I start, leaning against the counter, feeling a bit like a teenager all over again. “Do you think this whole thing is weird? Faking a relationship with York? I mean, it’s York Steele we’re talking about here.”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she glances over her shoulder at me. “Weird? Maybe. But a lot of things in life are weird, sweetie. You’re helping your dad and York with this media situation. Besides, it’s not like you’re faking it with a stranger. You’ve known York for years.”

“Yeah, but he’s York Steele,” I repeat, the disbelief still clinging to me. “He’s... well, he’s him. Famous, talented, ridiculously good-looking.” I roll my eyes, trying to make it sound casual, but the words feel heavy. “It’s just... I don’t know, it feels surreal, like I’m waiting for someone to yell ‘cut’ and tell me the scene’s over.”

Mom pauses her pancake flipping, setting the spatula down as she turns to me with a knowing smile. “Noelle, you’ve been around York long enough to know he’s more than all that. Sure, the fame and the looks might make it feel bigger than life, but at the end of the day, he’s just a guy. And from what I’ve seen, a guy who cares about you.”

I open my mouth to argue, to say something about how this is all for show, but she gives me a look, the one that says she knows more than she’s letting on. I hate when she does that. When she acts like she sees right through me.

“He’s pretending,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than I intended. “It’s all part of the deal. For the cameras.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is he?”

I don’t respond right away. I sip my coffee, the steam relaxing me slightly as I try to think. I’ve known York forever, but lately, there’s been something different. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Last night, in the kitchen, the way he looked at me... it didn’t feel like acting. And maybe that’s what’s throwing me off. Maybe I want it to be more than just pretend.

“I don’t know,” I finally admit, the uncertainty weighing heavily on my chest.

Mom smiles gently, walking over to me and resting a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, Noelle. Just don’t be afraid to let yourself feel something. Life’s too short for that.”

I nod, her words sinking in, but I’m still not convinced. It’s easier to think of this as a job. An arrangement. Anything more feels risky, and I’m not sure I’m ready to take that kind of risk. Not when it comes to York.