“Hi, Luke,” she says, still holding Lily. “You got bigger, buddy.”
He takes two more steps, then reaches out, takes her free hand, and holds it, his face turned up toward hers.
I watch the three of them on my front porch—Sydney holding my daughter, my son holding her hand—and I have the thought I always have when I see her with my kids, the one I never let myself finish.
She’s good with them. She’s always been good with them.
That’s as far as I let it go.
“Come inside,” I say. “I’ll show you the guest room.”
“Is there coffee?” she asks.
“Always.”
“Then lead the way, Lockwood.”
She walks past me into the house, Lily still attached to her like a barnacle, Luke trailing behind holding the handle of her suitcase because he wants to help.
I close the front door and follow them inside.
The house already sounds different.
Chapter Three
Paper Airplanes
Sydney
I wake up at six because my body doesn’t realize it’s in a different time zone, and also because I can hear someone moving around downstairs. My brain immediately jumps to “intruder” before I remember where I am.
Archer’s house. Guest room. New York.
Right.
I pad downstairs barefoot, following the sounds of a cabinet closing and a coffee maker gurgling. The kitchen is bright—morning sun floods through floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the marble counters, hardwood floors, and the island that’s larger than my entire kitchen back in Minnesota. The ceilings are high, the appliances are the kind you see in luxury designer magazines, and there’s a built-in wine fridge.
This is the nicest house I’ve ever been in, let alone slept in. I grew up in a three-bedroom ranch with carpet that smelled like dog, and now I’m standing barefoot in a multi-million dollar estate.
Archer stands at the coffee maker with his back to me. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and nothing else. The NHL has done things to his body that weren’t happening at seventeen. Hisshoulders are wider, and the muscles along his torso are defined. There’s a bruise on his left side, yellowing at the edges.
“Morning,” I say.
He turns around. “Hey. Coffee’s almost—”
He stops.
His eyes drop for just a second—a flash—and then they’re back on my face with a speed that tells me he saw everything and is now pretending he didn’t.
And that’s when I remember what I’m wearing.
Sleep shorts that barely qualify as clothing and a cropped t-shirt from college, washed so many times that the fabric is basically see-through. No bra.
I cross my arms and try to act casual. “Coffee’s almost what?” I ask.
“Ready.” He turns back to the counter. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
He pours two mugs with his back to me, which is considerate and also gives me a clear view of his shoulder blades and the way the sweatpants sit low on his hips. I decide to look at the ceiling instead. I’ll just focus on the ceiling and think about drywall, because the last thing I want to do is make things weird between us.
