Ham takes all of three seconds to pound a nail in, securing the wire. Then he leans on the post to test it with his body weight. It holds. He turns to me. “It should be good for now.” He hands the hammer back to me and grins. “Do you mind putting this back for me? I need to make sure the barn is cleaned out. I offered a stall to Maddie. Did you know that she got invited to the parade because she’s an Olympic medalist?”
“I didn’t know that.” A smile tugs on my lips as I always enjoy my time with her. “That’s amazing for her. It will be so fun to catch up. I don’t think I’ve seen her in forever.”
“Yeah, she’s coming on the third with her RV, and I offered her a spot to park it since parking in the city is a mess. I want tomake sure we are ready for her.” With that, he turns on his heel and struts away.
Ty doesn’t follow. If anything, he shifts his weight, planting his feet more firmly on the ground. He stays close to the fence, elbow leaning on the post. I mean to glance quickly, but when our eyes meet, they lock. There’s a magnetism that keeps us entwined. He’s always had the kindest eyes—I seriously could stare into them for hours. Yet all I hear is my mom’s voice in my head:a hockey guy is not good for your image!
Something twists inside me. Because she doesn’tseehim. Not how sweet, patient, or unexpectedly good he is.
And I don’t know why that makes me so angry.
“Hey,” he says lightly, finally breaking eye contact, sweeping his gaze to the ground for a beat. “I saw your mom’s name in the parade lineup. Are you helping her?”
“Of course. My mom’s favorite past time is recruiting voters at the Fourth of July parade. I so miss the little parade in Mapleton. This one’s a whole other deal—so overwhelming.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “What about you?”
He gives me his signature lazy grin, the one that surfaces after a full day in the sun. “Yeah. The team’s doing a PR thing. The league gave us all five hockey sticks to sign and give out to fans. I guess since there are fifty players, the math adds perfectly up to 250. Each stick is numbered, and the media’s going to be all over it.”
“Wow. I bet you’ll be popular.” I pause, running my tongue over my bottom lip as the sun beams overhead. “I, ah, I’m sorry about my mom. For someone always scolding me about decorum, I don’t get what she has against hockey—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts me off, waving his hand dismissively, but I won’t stand for it.
“It’s not fine.” I raise my voice in a defensive tone. “It’s your career, and you’re amazing at it. There’s nothing wrong withyour job. Plus, you’ve been friends with Ham and me for years. She needs to be respectful.”
Ty nods, which feels out of place—like a mistimed salute—as he goes quiet, turning his gaze from mine, as if it suddenly hurts to look at me. “What did I say,” my voice goes softer; the air has shifted in a single second.
He shakes his head. “Just that word.”
“Respectful?”
“Friend.”
The single word lodges in my chest like a sharp edge. He tugs up one corner of his lips, then shrugs.
“Well, we aren’t enemies,” I blurt, my heart thumping against my ribs.
Our eyes lock again, and my insides completely freeze. “Lottie, we haven’t spoken in five—”
“Lottie!” My mom’s shrill cry from the front porch slices through the air. “I need help finding something to wear to the parade.”
Scowling, totally annoyed she’s intruding on my conversation, I yell back, “Just pick a suit!”
“Well, yes, of course I’m wearing a suit, but I need help ironing it.”
I stare at her, counting to ten in my head so I don’t explode. Somedays I wish she could hear herself. When I look back at Ty, he tips his head like he’s wearing an imaginary hat. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with Ham. I’m here for a couple of weeks, and I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he hurries off, and I roll my eyes as I scurry back to the house to help my mom.
Ironing?
Seriously.
At what point do I put my foot down and say,“This isn’t part of my job.”? I guess that’s one of the huge caveats to living withyour boss—the tasks never end. I hustle through the front door, shoving it to slam behind me, and stomp up the old wooden stairs, sending a prelude of my mood echoing through the house. I only slow once I pass through her bedroom door, where she’s already wearing her suit, spinning in front of the full-length mirror, admiring herself from every angle.
“Did you check the label to see if you can even iron that?” I force my voice to sound pleasant. “I would think it’s dry-clean only.”
“It was professionally laundered,” she says, her tone more nasally than normal. “I just said that to get you away from that man.”
“From Ty?” I tilt my head. That doesn’t sound right—he’s been around forever.
“Lottie,” she says in that commanding tone, “we need to talk about my image.”
