And one of these days he’ll meet someone else—someone younger and less of a disaster. And then his texts will just stop. I’m already bracing myself.
I put the truck into gear, wincing at the grinding noise, and drive two miles to the address that Beck sent me. I was expecting a shitty little condo development, but it’s a little house on a snowy block. There’s a warm glow coming from inside, and after I kill the engine, I sit still for a moment, thinking about how much I want to walk inside, but knowing I shouldn’t.
The front door opens, though, and Beck gestures to me. His expression says, this is the right house, idiot. So I haul my carcass out, and it’s not as easy as it should be. I didn’t do any post-game stretching, and I’m paying for it now.
So sexy.
I trudge up the carefully shoveled walk and meet Beck in the front hall, where he takes my coat and hangs it on a peg.
Weirdly, he doesn’t give me the happy puppy face I usually see when we’re together. The glance he gives me is warier than that, even as he waves me toward the living room.
Hmm.
I step past him and immediately stop short. This isn’t what I expected.
The living room is surprisingly grown-up—no pizza boxes or beer cans scattered around like I’d pictured. Instead, there’s a decent couch in front of a solid wood coffee table, and the walls are painted a warm gray instead of rental white. But it’s the details that catch me off guard.
There’s a small shelf dedicated entirely to hockey-themed snow globes for various NHL teams. They’re grouped by conference, of course. And the room is lit by string lights across the ceiling—in the shape of snowflakes.
Then there’s the low, sexy lighting, and the heartbeat thump of a hidden speaker somewhere. The song is “Need You Tonight” by INXS.
“Nice place,” I say, still taking it in.
“Thanks. Rigsy wanted to hang a neon beer sign, but I threatened to hide his protein powder.” Beck kicks off his shoes by the door, where there’s an actual shoe rack. “How about a drink? Fair warning—our fridge is like ninety percent energy drinks and Greek yogurt.”
How about a drink? I wonder how old I’ll have to be to hear that phrase and not suppress a shiver. “Just, uh, water would be great. Thank you for going to the trouble.”
He gives me another stern look. “It’s not trouble, Forest. Sit down. Let’s talk.”
Oh shit. Those words give everybody the shivers, right?
I take a seat on the sofa, and Beck disappears for a second, returning with two bottles of water. He sits down beside me and gives me a sideways glance. “Are you pissed I showed up at your game?”
“No,” I say immediately. “That was fun.”
He’s quiet for a second, his long eyelashes dipping. “You didn’t answer my texts, though. So that means I have to wonder whether showing up tonight makes me pathetic, or a stalker. Or, as you put it, fun.”
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “The week got away from me. The boiler at Sportsballs finally gave out, and I spent a lot of time trying to get it patched. And I’m trying to hire two new bartenders, so my text messages are like a portal to hell. Today I interviewed a guy who asked if we have WiFi for his laptop because he likes to work while he tends bar. Work. While bartending.”
Beck blinks. “What kind of work?”
“His novel. He’s writing a novel about vampires who play professional hockey.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Beck bursts out laughing. “Wait, that actually sounds kind of awesome. Like, do the vampires have an advantage because they sparkle and scare the other team? And is sunlight a problem during morning skate?”
“Don’t encourage this,” I growl, but I’m fighting a smile. “The woman I interviewed before him seemed promising until she asked if she could bring her emotional support pig to work.” I pause. “A pig. Not a dog. Not even a cat. Anyway, I was going to call you, but I had Charlie’s parent-teacher conferences at school, and…” I break off, rubbing my forehead. “I guess I could have just said that.”
“You could have just said that,” Beck repeats quietly.
“That was rude,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”
He puts his elbows on his knees and glances away from me. “My mother brines her chicken for three hours. There’s no cutting it short. If she gets a late start on dinner, we don’t eat until nine.”
I blink. “Your mother?” Is she here?
“Nah.” He flips his blue eyes back to me. “But that’s how you treat my texts—only responding after they’re thoroughly seasoned.”
Oh. I crack a smile, because I love the inside of Beck’s brain. But he has a point. “I can do better. I don’t mean to be such an ass.”
