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So our date begins without any expectation other than agreeing to see how we feel at the evening’s end.
My family is great, so it’s no hardship to talk about my parents—Mick and Tonya—as well as my mom’s sister, Rory, who is like a second mom to me and dotes on all her nieces and nephews.
“Do you have any siblings?” Stevie asks.
“I had an older sister, Rachel. She died thirteen years ago from leukemia, but I’ve got lots of cousins I’m close to.”
“Oh my God,” Stevie says, reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”
I smile at her, taking note that time does indeed dull the pain, although it never quite leaves. “She was two years older than me.”
“I can’t even imagine how hard that was.”
I nod, remembering the weeks after Rachel died, losing not only a sister but my best friend. The days of uncertainty where I didn’t know if my mom would ever recover from the loss, but with a lot of support and therapy, she pulled herself out of a very dark place. “My mom took it really hard. I mean, it was hard for me—I was just a kid—and for my dad, but Mom and Rachel were really close. She was depressed for a long time.”
Something flickers over Stevie’s face, and I’m guessing it has to do with her own mother, who she said is complicated.
I don’t go there, though.
“Harlow said you two met in high school.” A subtle shift in conversation puts the spotlight on her.
She grins, shaking her head as she runs a black polished fingertip over the top of her glass, and in that fond smile, I see years of good memories. “I got redistricted into her school my freshman year and was like a fish out of water. Harlow took me under her wing, staved off a lot of bullying, and we became close.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit about Harlow. She’s good people.”
“The best,” Stevie agrees. “While she had good intentions with holding the charity toy drive at my bar, she did it to help me bring in customers. Things have been a bit slow lately.”
“I’ll definitely be coming back and I’ll bring more Titans too.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Hendrix. My bar—”
“Is an amazing place to hang out, and besides, I’ve kind of got the hots for the owner.”
And holy fuck… Stevie blushes, gaze dropping down to her beer. She’s a multifaceted woman, all right, but I didn’t think I’d ever say anything that would pinken that creamy skin.
I take advantage of her discombobulation. “This would be the part where you say you’ve got the hots for me.”
Her gaze snaps back up, and gone is the embarrassment. “You’re growing on me.”
I clutch my heart, pull my chin in, and look wounded. “That’s all you got?”
“I like to keep you wondering,” she says coolly, and I like she does that to me.
What I don’t like is that a thought about Tracy comes unbidden, that there wasn’t a bit of mystery about her. I had to guess at nothing, which should’ve been a comfort, but in hindsight was apparently a turnoff.
Laughing, I drum my fingers on the table. “I’ll give that to you. But tell me about your dad. He’s about as fascinating as you are.”
“He’s great. You might not see that because he’s overprotective, but he raised me all on his own. Was in the army, then helped my grandfather run the bar for a while before becoming a tattoo artist.”
“Jerry is your grandfather?”
“Yeah… it was his bar. My grandpap died when I was twenty and the bar passed to me.”
“How did your dad raise you on his own while he was in the military?” I ask, completely impressed. I’ve seen some single hockey dads over my career—like Drake—but they’ve always had a great support system.
“He found a way with the help of friends and other military families. For long deployments, I stayed with my grandparents. He got out when I was four. He couldn’t stand being away from me, even if I was happy, safe, and loved with his parents.”
“He’s a scary dude, but you’re making me like him,” I concede.
“He’s the absolute best person I know.”
I learn a lot more about her dad, including the fact he rides with and is the president of his motorcycle club. We discuss tattoos and she’s surprised I have a few of my own, but she’s got me far outnumbered.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask.
“On my eighteenth birthday. My dad’s name.” She holds out her wrist for me to see. “How about you?”
“Sixteen.” She raises her eyebrows. “Without my parents’ permission or knowledge.”
Her expression becomes knowing. “If your parents didn’t see it, I’m assuming you can’t show it to me.”
“Left hip. Maybe you’ll get to see it one day.”
