Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“This feels so fancy,” Nova muses. “Wish I’d packed an overnight bag.”
“No bag needed. I have plenty of T-shirts.” And spare toothbrushes, cause every time I go to Costco, I stock up on that sort of shit.
“Where are your roommates?” she asks, petting the dog.
“Out,” I say, grabbing a second bottle of water and handing it to her. “For now. But I don’t totally trust that one of them won’t bust in on us. They have boundaries most of the time, but if they realize I have company, they might be too excited to mind their business.”
Nova hesitates. “What about Skaggs?”
“What about him?”
“Can we trust him to keep our secret?”
This fucking secret.
This sneaking around…
I hate it more than I let on. I hate not being able to touch her in public, not being able to look at her the way I want to—like she’s mine—even when my teammates are two feet away and none the wiser. I hate acting like she’s just Gio’s sister when she’s the thing keeping me up at night and making me stupid on the ice.
I exhale, slow. “Skaggs is a lot of things. Loud, nosy, always taking the last protein bar.”
She waits, eyes steady.
“But he’s loyal,” I say. “If I tell him this is serious—and that it stays between us—he won’t say shit.”
Her shoulders relax a little. “Okay. Good. That’s... good.”
“You worried?”
She shrugs, petting Nugget with one hand, toying with the edge of her water bottle with the other. “I just keep thinking about Gio finding out. How weird that would be. How—”
“Nova.”
She looks up.
“We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I know.”
She’s lying. She totally thinks this is wrong.
I don’t call her out on it. Don’t push.
I nod like I believe her and go back to slicing a block of cheddar cheese, to occupy my hands and keep my head clear, pushing the idea that she somehow disapproves of me—and continue fussing with our board of snacks.
I ignore the fact that I’m bothered by her being bothered.
Does that make sense?
“Cheese okay?” I ask, not looking at her.
“Love cheese,” she says softly. “Thanks.”
I hum in response, still not meeting her eyes.
Nugget stretches with a loud, dramatic groan at her feet, rolling over to nudge his nose against her ankle, wanting more pets. Needy fucker is better at this than I am…
I glance up and catch her watching me.
Like—really watching me.
She knows exactly why I’m being avoidant, but so is she, which makes us even.
“You went quiet,” she says.
“I’m not quiet.” I’m focused. Pick up the board and nod toward the back staircase that leads up to the second floor. “Want to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses?”
She does want, standing and going to the wine rack. Grabs a bottle of red, two glasses, and follows me to the stairs.
“Nugget, stay.”
He whines, rejected, wagging his tail toward Nova—his one saving grace.
“Sorry buddy. We want privacy.”
We move down the hallway, past several closed doors—Cash’s room, then Skaggs’s. My room is at the far end, the weird little ‘if the bed is rocking, don’t come knocking’ bumper sticker Skaggs bought at Buc-ee’s as a joke.
Nova sticks her head inside, cautiously nudging the door open. “You have the primary?”
“Sure do.” As the owner of the house, obviously the primary is mine.
“You make your bed!” she says, impressed.
“Every morning.” I move into the room beside her. “I read somewhere that making your bed first thing sets the tone for the rest of your day.”
Nova steps fully inside, her eyes sweeping the room. “Look at you, Mr. Structure and Routine.”
“It’s called emotional regulation?”
She grins and toes off her shoes near the doorway. “Pretty sure I’ve seen that on Therapy Tok.”
Walking to the sitting area, I set the grazing board on the small coffee table and turn to watch her walking around my space. It’s lived-in but clean.
My white comforter is crisp, tucked tight as if I’d spent some time in the military.
A large-scale abstract canvas hangs above the headboard—a white and cream abstract that has no sentimental value and is only there to fill the void. My shelves are lined with framed photographs of family, friends, and teammates. Several pucks from hockey legends. A framed jersey from my college team. Candles. Books I mostly pretend I’ve read.
She stops at one of the framed pictures on my dresser.
“High school playoffs,” I say, leaning over to see it. “I split my lip during that game. See the scar?”
I point to my mouth as she leans closer to the picture, squinting at the younger, beardless version of me standing next to Rhett Anderson, both of us sweaty and cocky and vibrating with youth. My lip is split, blood crusted at the edge of my smile, and my left eye was already starting to swell shut.
“Jesus,” she says. “You look twelve.”
“Seventeen,” I correct. “Tough as hell.”
Obviously.
She grins, brushing her fingers over one of the candles on the shelf. “Do you actually light these or are they just props?”