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“Yeah, but you could have had it updated. Painted.” I turn to face him. “Isn’t itsupposedto be painted before you move in?”
“I could have changed it,” he mutters, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “But…”
And then I get it. “But you didn’t want to like it. Because Chicago isn’t where you want to be.” And he’s basically counting down the days until he gets to leave.
“Turns out Chicago’s not so bad.”
Chicago is pretty spectacular. And in spite of his differences with Greg, he seems to have found a rhythm with the team and O’Brian in particular that has Slayers fans everywhere taking notice. But the way he meets my eyes tells me it isn’tjustthe city he’s talking about.
God, I’m falling so hard. More every minute we spend together.
I know I should be careful. That I’m treading dangerously close to a line I swore I wouldn’t cross, to betraying a promise I made to myself when I was sixteen years old getting yanked out of yet another school so we could follow Greg to Dallas. But being with Vaughn just feels too good.
And really what’s the harm in letting myself live out this fantasy while it lasts? It’s not like I’m going to throw away the life I’ve spent years building here. I have a job I love, I’m a coach for an amazing team, and a contributor to the community. I have friends and family and plans and priorities, and all of itmeans somethingto me.
Vaughn means something too. More than I thought he would. But he’s a professional hockey player who’s signed on to a life of putting the NHL above all else. It will dictate where he lives, what his schedule looks like, activities he can or can’t partake in. It will be the thing he has to put first every single time and, to a degree, so will the person who chooses to be with him.
I can’t sign on to a lifetime of being second best. It’s how I grew up. Second best to my brother. An afterthought to my parents. Barely a consideration in the choices that shaped the lives of our family.
I need to come first. At least part of the time.
I owe it to myself to make good on that promise. Which is why, when the season is over, no matter how much it hurts, I’m going to let Vaughn go.
But until then, I’m going to revel in every dirty kiss, soulful embrace and hard-won laugh this man can give me.
I look up into his gray eyes and pat his chest. “Chicago might not be so bad, but this placereallyis. I can’t believe youforcedme to come over here. A good boyfriend would have protected me.”
His head tips back and he laughs, the sound warming me through. After a breath, he asks, “Ready for a tour, baby?”
I push my eyes wide. “You mean there’s more?”
“Yeah, but don’t get your hopes up.”
Dark trim and dated fixtures run throughout the space, but thankfully the wallpaper runners and offbeat paint jobs are limited to the back. Within, beige and browns stretch as far as the eye can see. “Umm… Where’s your furniture?”
There’s a beast of an L-shaped sectional in his living room, black of course, like the oversized glass coffee table in front of it. But no carpet. No accent pieces. Just an enormous TV mounted on the otherwise empty walls and a pile of gaming equipment stretched across the floor.
It’s like he was so pissed that he had to come here, he refused to make the space his own in any way. Like every time he walked in the door, he wanted the glaring reminder that he wasn’t staying.
His dining room is more of the same. A massive table that implies at some point in the past he considered having company over. But there aren’t any chairs, and the only thing on the table are stacks of paperwork and a few boxes with team memorabilia probably waiting for his autograph.
The kitchen is black and cream. New appliances next to aging cabinets that are mostly empty. The master bedroom… well, there’s a bed and another TV. A workout room with all the usual equipment.
And then there’sthe room. The one he almost threw his body in front of when I tried to look into it. The one I walked into anyway and had to back out of before my head exploded.
“What the heck, Vaughn?” I gasp, peeking in again.
Well, I guess that’s where all his furniture went.
Clearing his throat, he rakes his hands through his hair and fists them at the back of his head. “I know. But it felt pointless to find places for everything when I’d only be here for a few months.”
At my arched brow, he grunts out, “Fine, more than a few.”
Like closer to ten. “You’re pretty serious about not getting attached, huh?”
“Not so much as I was.” Such a sweet guy.
Inside the room, the scent of cardboard hits me hard. Row after row of neatly stacked, meticulously labeled boxes housing the life Vaughn put on hold until he leaves Chicago fill half the room, while a Tetris-style jumble of furniture fills the other.
