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“How’s the new job going?” I ask.
Danica gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Good, I think. At least Brienne seems happy with my work. It’s a bit overwhelming, though.”
“Because you’ve never put together a brand-new charitable organization before?” I tease with a nudge of my elbow.
Danica laughs, wry huskiness roughening the sound. “Well, there’s that. But this is actually the first job I’ve held since I moved to Pittsburgh.”
I’m not sure if that surprises me or not. I know Danica was a stay-at-home mom like many of the hockey wives are but she always seemed to be busy doing stuff. I know she was on different committees and she frequently seemed to be organizing things. “I imagine it’s a bit harrowing… learning how to be in the workforce while trying to absorb everything in an unfamiliar field.”
“Thank God for people like Brienne. I know she gave me this job somewhat out of pity.”
I shake my head. “No… no way. Brienne doesn’t hand out pity favors. She would’ve never brought you on if she didn’t think you were capable.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve learned there are lots of things I didn’t think I was capable of until Mitch died.”
I don’t have a lot of experience regarding the intricacies of marriage. My mom died when I was only ten so I was raised by a single dad. He ran our household with the precision of an army master sergeant, which he actually was. My mom was a stay-at-home mother, the same as Danica. Her duties centered around making sure me and my brothers, as well as my dad, were well taken care of. When she died, gone were the home-cooked meals, warm hugs and bedtime stories before being tucked in.
Granted, my dad could change all the household smoke detector batteries in under ten minutes, which included carting the ten-foot ladder up and down the stairs, but he couldn’t hug us. He could fix a leaky pipe but he could barely manage more than canned chicken soup for dinner. My dad was skilled with house maintenance but a failure at emotional intelligence.
Which… a sudden thought strikes. “You need any help around the house?”
Danica frowns, mild confusion on her face. “Um… like what?”
I shrug. “You know… anything need fixing that you might not know how to do? For example, when’s the last time you replaced your smoke detector batteries?”
Her expression turns blank. “They run on batteries?”
I roll my eyes at her. “No, they run on sunshine and good vibes. Of course they run on batteries and it’s important the batteries are working or else it defeats the whole safety aspect of such things.”
She laughs at my backhanded teasing but pinches the bridge of her nose as she shakes her head. “I thought they were hardwired.”
“Some are but they have battery backup. When the power is out, they rely on batteries. And I suppose that answers my question. I’ll come over and put some fresh ones in for you.”
Danica shakes her head. “Oh, no… you don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
I wave her off. “I don’t mind.”
“You’ve done enough for me by coming to this thing,” she says, nodding toward Holden taking selfies with his car. “Although promise me if I ever let Travis become a materialistic snot like that, you’ll throttle me.”
My laugh booms a little too loud and several people turn my way. Chuckling, I reassure her, “Your kid is very grounded. No chance of that.”
Danica doesn’t laugh in response, her attention taken by something across the room. I notice that she worries at her bottom lip while watching Graham Bale as he stands talking to a group of men. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, lifting her wrist to eyeball her watch. “Nothing. I just have to go insert myself at some point and secure the sponsorship. I’ve got the commitment pledge for him to sign and he said he would, but…” Her words trail off, worry pulling her mouth downward as she glances back at them. “He seems so unapproachable.”
I know exactly what she means. The dude bought his brand-new licensed driver son a Ferrari, which puts him in a different social stratosphere from Danica. Hell, I make a lot of damn money but I’d never be comfortable hanging with these people. They not only have money but power in this city.
“You know how Graham Bale puts on his pants?” I ask her.
She tilts her head at me, those tawny eyes soft with curiosity. “How?”
“One leg at a time, same as you.”
“That’s probably the only thing we have in common,” she says with a wry smile. “But it’s time to put on my big-girl britches and get this done.”
“Want me to go with you?” I ask, feeling the undeniable pull to stick by her side for reassurance.
Maybe protection.
