Well Played (Well Met #2)(76)

“Hey.” Emily bumped me with her shoulder as we caught the end of the mud show. “Are you all right? You seem . . . distracted.”

I wasn’t all right. Not in the least. But Emily was about twenty-four hours out from her honeymoon. She didn’t need to be worrying about me and my drama. What kind of friend would I be if I burdened her with my troubles right now? A pretty lousy one. So instead I pasted my smile back on my face and kept my voice light, my accent perfect. “Of course, Emma! Everything is fine.”

“Hmm.” She looked over her shoulder behind us, then turned back to me. “I haven’t seen Daniel today. Is he around?”

“I don’t think so.” My smile was starting to hurt, but dammit, I was going to wear it anyway. “I think he had to leave early.”

“Hmm,” she said again, a noncommittal sound. “And you’re sure you’re all right? Because the hot mud guy almost lost his pants just now, and you didn’t say a word.”

My laugh was a little too loud, but it could be blamed on me staying in character. “Perhaps I am trying to be a little more high-class these days, Emma, dear.” I nudged her with my elbow and flashed her a grin. Mollified, she smiled back, a genuine smile that said I had fooled her. As far as she knew, my heart wasn’t breaking.

It was exhausting, keeping up that carefree persona for the entire day, but after what seemed like a hundred years we were at the front stage again, clapping along to the final act at pub sing, and then Simon, in his pirate character, was thanking the remaining patrons for coming and the day was finally, finally over. My new bodice was front-lacing, so I tugged the laces loose on the walk to my car in the volunteer parking lot. Once I was home and my breathing was unimpeded, I dug my phone out of my blue leather backpack. If I ordered a pizza now, it would be here by the time I was showered and in comfy clothes. Sure enough, I’d just finished putting on my most comfortable sweats and combing out my wet hair when the pepperoni and mushroom with a side of garlic knots arrived. The knock on the door coincided with a chime on my phone, and for a split second I froze, unsure which to answer first. But food won out, and once I’d gotten a soda out of the fridge to go with my pizza, I picked up my phone. It was an email notification, and the preview was enough to make me almost drop my drink.


Daniel MacLean: I’m sure an email from me is the last thing you . . .



I very carefully set down my drink, then my phone, since seeing his name made my hands shake. I didn’t like the way tears sprang to my eyes at the sight of his name, so I made myself take a couple of good, deep breaths before I went and got my laptop. I needed a bigger screen for this.

There was no subject line.


I’m sure an email from me is the last thing you want right now. Who knows, maybe you’ve already blocked my email address, not to mention my phone number. I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you did. But here goes nothing.

I had no intention of misleading you. That may sound ridiculous now, but it’s true. You have to know that I don’t hang around at all the faires we work. Usually I show up beforehand, make sure all the arrangements are made, and help the guys set up. Then after the first weekend, if everything’s in good shape, I don’t usually stick around, and I certainly don’t hang out at the faire all day. The only time I do that is when we come to Willow Creek. It’s almost comical, the things I do to look busy while I’m there—running the merch, lurking at the back of the show to make sure the guys know what they’re doing. But I do it, because the longer I stay in Willow Creek, the more I get to see you.

I’m not Dex. Believe me, that’s been drilled into my head my whole life. First by our family, who talked me into managing my cousins once they’d formed a band since I had no real talent of my own. Then by girls who pretend that they’re into me so they can get closer to him. No one notices me when he’s there, including you. You and I have always been friendly, but he was the one you had your eye on. So I never tried to make our friendship anything more. I’ve told myself every summer that being friends with you was good enough.

When that first message came through from you on the band’s page, I thought you’d noticed me. At last. So I answered you, as myself. Truthfully and completely. Then when you wrote back, you called me Dex, and I realized that I hadn’t been on your mind at all. I won’t tell you what that felt like. But that’s when I passed your original message to my cousin, which was the right thing to do, even though it hurt like hell. And Dex . . . well, he already told you his reaction. He wanted me to “handle it.” Dump you, basically, on his behalf.

And I just couldn’t hurt you like that. Then it occurred to me that, between Dex’s looks and my words, together we made the kind of man you deserve.



I sighed at that point and picked up my glass, wishing my soda was wine instead. “Dammit,” I muttered. Simon was right. This really was some Cyrano de Bergerac bullshit.

But I kept reading.


I knew there’d be a reckoning at some point. Each time I emailed, or later texted, I told myself that I’d come clean the next time. That it was the right thing to do. But I never did. Because I knew coming clean would mean losing what we had, and I wasn’t ready for that.

You asked me to give you a reason to stay. I wish I had one. I’ve been living on the road, managing this band, since I was nineteen. That’s who I am. It’s all I have. I don’t have anything to offer you but a life on the road. And you made it clear that you don’t want that. Of course you don’t, and I was wrong to even ask. You deserve so much more than a life like this.