“I had a very specific plan and abandoned it in the first five minutes.”
“What was the plan?”
“Be very professional.” I look at him. At the combed hair that’s come slightly undone, looking more like usual, the jacket over his arm, the bracelet on his wrist with the neon word SUPERSTAR catching the light. Twenty-two years old. The most emotionally prepared person in any room he enters.
“You were better than professional,” I say.
He pulls me toward him by my wrist — not forcefully, but certain when his mouth meets my hair.
“What did he say to you?”
Max grins. “Told me your terrible parking skills come from him.”
“Max.”
He softens. “He lovesyou a lot, Toni.”
And that breaks me a little. The two men I love most are beginning to see each other clearly.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Elena Russo
The apartment goes silent the second the door closes. Frank hasn't moved. I’m alone with Frank Amato.
For several moments neither of us speaks. Chicago glitters outside the windows. Traffic crawls below. The hum of the refrigerator, the candle burning low. Frank studies his glass. I stack plates, load the dishwasher, and pretend not to watch him. He pretends not to notice. We are both terrible liars.
Finally he sighs deeply. "You're doing it again."
I glance over my shoulder. "Doing what?"
"Waiting for me to say something."
A smile pulls at my mouth. "Maybe I'm learning from you."
To my delight, Frank laughs. I turn around and discover he looks younger when he does it. Less like the intimidating NHL official. The realization catches me unexpectedly.Because I suddenly understand something. For months I've been watching Toni and Max stumble toward each other.
What I never saw was that Frank has been stumbling toward something too. "You like him."
Frank immediately frowns. "I didn't say that."
"No," I agree. "You never say anything."
His eyes narrow. "He isn't what I expected."
I dry my hands slowly. "What did you expect?"
Frank considers the question. "A showboat."
I laugh. "Max?"
"He plays professional hockey."
"Frank, have you met professional hockey players?"
His mouth twitches. "I expected someone reckless." He looks toward the front door. "He isn't."
I say nothing. Because sometimes silence accomplishes more than conversation.
