All Chapters of The Holidate Pact: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

JACKSONWe left at nine. Two hours of pot roast and psychological warfare disguised as family dinner.I opened the car door for Sloane. She slid in without a word. I went around to the driver's side. Got in. Started the engine.Neither of us spoke.I pulled out of the driveway. Her parents' house disappeared in the rearview mirror. All those hearts and lights and forced romance fading into darkness.Three blocks. Four. Still silence.Finally: "That was...""Exhausting," she finished."I was going to say intense.""Same thing."I drove. She stared out the window. Her reflection ghosted across the glass. I could see her jaw working. Thinking. Processing.Five more blocks."I confronted her in the kitchen," Sloane said quietly.My hands tightened on the wheel. "Veronica?""Who else?""What did she say?"Sloane was quiet for a beat. "That you're different with me. That she barely recognizes this version of you."I glanced over. "And?""And that she doesn't trust it. That people don't chan

JACKSON **MARCH 1-3: INDIANA TOURNAMENT** The tournament grounds smelled like fresh-cut grass and sunscreen. I adjusted my grip on my driver, waiting for my turn at the first tee. Three days of qualifying rounds. Three days to prove I still had it. "Nice swing yesterday." I turned. Dean stood there, golf bag slung over his shoulder, that knowing smirk already in place. "Thanks." "You told her yet?" "Told who what?" Dean laughed. "Don't play dumb. You told Sloane you're in love with her?" My grip tightened on my club. I didn't deny it. Couldn't, really. Not when Dean had known me since college, had seen me through Bridget and the mess after. "Thought so." Dean clapped my shoulder. "You're screwed, man." We played our rounds. Between holes, Dean kept talking. "You've never let anyone this close," he said on the seventh green. "Not even Bridget." I lined up my putt. "Bridget was different." "Yeah. Bridget wanted a fantasy. Some perfect guy who'd give her the dream life." De

JACKSONMarch 8th. Four days until Sloane's birthday and I had nothing.My shoulder still ached when I moved wrong. Physical therapy twice a week. Ice packs every night. But that wasn't the problem keeping me awake at 2 AM.What do you give someone when everything's changed but nothing's been said out loud?I tried the obvious places first. Walked through Marshall Field's jewelry counter, my good arm tucked in my sling. The saleswoman showed me necklaces, bracelets, earrings. Everything looked wrong. Too flashy. Too impersonal. Too much like something Marcus would've bought her.I left empty-handed.Bookstore next. She loved reading. I stood in the fiction section for an hour, reading first pages, trying to find something she hadn't already discovered. Gave up when I realized I was overthinking a book.Flowers felt lazy. Chocolate felt generic. Perfume felt intimate in the wrong way.By March 9th, I was desperate enough to call my mother.She answered on the third ring. Morning in Mel

SLOANEDinner was Italian. Candlelight and white tablecloths. Jackson ordered wine. I wore his grandmother's watch and couldn't stop touching it.We talked about everything except what mattered. His shoulder therapy. My Morningside pitch next week. His students. My mother's Easter planning.Safe topics. Easy conversation.But underneath, tension hummed. Whatever he'd been about to say at the museum sat between us like a third person at the table.He drove me home at 10:30. Walked me to my door because that's what he always did now."Thank you," I said. "For today. For the watch. For everything.""Happy birthday, Sloane."We stood there. My keys in my hand. His good hand in his pocket. The hallway light buzzing overhead.He leaned in. I thought he might kiss me. Really kiss me. Not the contract-approved version.His phone rang.He pulled back. Looked at the screen. Frowned."Veronica."My stomach dropped. "You should answer it.""It's almost 11.""Something might be wrong."He answered

JACKSONAt tWhe hotel restaurant, I sat in a corner booth, watching the door. My phone showed 8:57 AM. Mitchell was never late.At exactly 9:00, he walked in.Same buzz cut. Same military posture. Same look that made grown men check their grip.He spotted me. Crossed the room in long strides. Didn't smile."Jackson.""Coach."We shook hands. His grip was still iron.He sat. A waiter appeared immediately. Mitchell ordered black coffee. Nothing else."You look soft," he said."Nice to see you too.""I'm serious. When's the last time you played a real round? Not teaching. Playing."My jaw tightened. "Few months.""Shows." He leaned back. Studied me. "You waste that swing on housewives?""They're students. And I'm good at teaching.""You were good at playing. Past tense." He paused. "Until you ran."The word landed like a punch."I didn't run. I made a choice.""You ran from Bridget. From pressure. From being great." His coffee arrived. He didn't touch it. "Now you're what? Content? Happ