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Hollis lifts a finger to make a point. “A small napkin. Or a decorative little mat, often made of lace.”
“What are you—the dictionary?” Rhys asks, laughing.
“He did sound just like one,” I say, smiling too. It feels good to smile after the drama of the last hour. And the drama to come when I try to get my life back in order.
May no one who watches my yoga videos ever know what a hot mess I am.
While petting the cat, Hollis turns back to me. “So did Frances Furbottom belong to a doily-making old lady?”
He seems so delighted by this story he’s concocting that I almost hate to burst his bubble with the truth. But I blow out a breath and tell him anyway. “No,” I say. “She just has a really furry butt.”
The car is silent for several seconds. Then, the guys laugh and one by one make their way out of the car, with Gavin carefully setting Donut into a dog car seat he’s somehow unearthed amidst the rubble of my garbage bag life. They stand by the passenger window, my three tall, strapping hockey rescue hunks who rose to the occasion.
They look good in the soft lamplight of the January evening. Rhys, who’s tall and lean for a hockey guy, with dark hair that’s nearly black and a trim beard the same shade. A slice of white skin splits his right eyebrow—probably one of many scars.
Gavin is the broadest of the bunch with a thick slab of a chest, barrels for arms, and a dusting of light brown stubble across the fair skin of his jawline.
Hollis is all California sunshine and muscles. Light freckles and dark blond hair, surfer style, like the ocean breeze always blows through it.
I know him the best of the three. But I think he also makes himself the most known. The others probably know me more as a rival since I work for the opposing team.
And now they’ve seen me at my worst.
My most helpless.
And frustrated.
And hurt.
I squirm a little under the spotlight. I really need to go. “Thanks again for the help.” Donut barks in solidarity from the backseat. “I owe you guys one.”
Hollis flashes the biggest smile of all and taps the open window. “Can’t wait to call that one in.”
They leave, walking the other way, and I drive into the night, desperately needing someplace to stay.
I fumble for my phone and hit the first number I find. “Any chance I could get into that rental a week early?”
6
I NEVER LIKED HIM ANYWAY
Briar
Aubrey waggles a bottle of champagne at me. “Breakup champagne. You need it. I’ve got it.”
I’m not turning bubbly down. Or friendship. Twenty minutes after saying goodbye to the guys, I sink onto the cushy stool in the state-of-the-art kitchen at her palatial home in Pacific Heights—the one she shares with her two hockey boyfriends.
I glance at the label on the bottle. I Never Liked Him Anyway. “How fitting,” I say as she pours. “A prototype of yours?”
“Yup. I’m thinking of making a line of breakup champagne with my friend Juliet. She’s a party planner. So we made a few types to test.”
“I’m the perfect guinea pig,” I say with a frown.
She hands me a flute and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Been there.”
“I know,” I say, heavily.
After I called Kailani, who’s handling logistics for the festival, about getting into the rental in Lucky Falls early, I rang Aubrey to see if I could crash at her place for the night. If anyone understands my situation it’s Aubrey. Her story’s not identical to mine, but her line of breakup champagne is inspired by her own failed love story. Her groom ditched her at the altar ten minutes before their wedding. Now, more than a year later, Aubrey is living her very best life, happily in love with two men who adore her. One is the goalie for the Golden State Foxes and the other is the recently retired forward from the Sea Dogs.
