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Less than ten minutes later, I arrive at Boones. The mouthwatering scent of fried dough, apple, and cinnamon sugar hits me as I step inside. When my gaze lands on Winter, my mouth waters for a whole different reason.
She’s standing in front of the fryer, her back to me. She’s wearing the customary Boones T-shirt and a pair of black shorts. They’re basic athletic shorts, the kind someone might wear running. Under them is a second pair of shorts, made of legging material, which end mid-thigh. They cover yesterday’s road rash.
Rose is behind the cash register. “You’re about as subtle as a fart in an elevator.” She slides her phone into her apron and arches a brow. “Wanna throw another half dozen fritters in the fryer, Winter?”
“Sure thing.” Winter glances over her shoulder at me. A small smile appears, but she quickly schools it and turns back to the fritters.
Once the customer ahead of me pays for her order, Rose rings me through. “I’m going to flirt with Scottie in the kitchen and give you two a minute to be awkward together.” She disappears into the back room, leaving us alone.
I lean on the counter. “You haven’t answered my texts.”
Winter lifts the basket of fritters from the fryer and sets it in the rack to drain. She turns and crosses her arms. “That’s because I haven’t made a decision yet.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“I’m supposed to mow the lawn after work.”
“What time do you finish here?”
Rose pokes her head through the doorway. “One! She finishes at one!”
Winter shoots her a look. “Seriously? I thought you were giving us time to be awkward without an audience.”
Rose gives her a cheeky grin. “I’m listening, not watching.” She disappears again.
“You think that’s enough time for you to mow the lawn and make it back to the arena at four?” I ask.
She grips the edge of the counter. “I’ve gotta run a couple of errands too.”
“I could pick you up, if that would help you lean in my favor. Say three forty-five at the end of your driveway?” I do the thing that annoys Lovey because she says it makes me impossible to say no to. I look up at Winter from under my lashes and bite my lip. Then just in case, I also appeal to her competitive side. “Think about it. An hour on a rink, just you and me. We can run skate drills. And I’ll give you a few pointers on how to tighten your turns.”
Her eyes narrow. “Who said I need to tighten my turns?”
“You’re confident on breakaways, but you falter in the crease. One lesson and I promise you’ll have it down.”
She adjusts her ball cap. “Are you always this persistent?”
That’s close to a yes. “Only when I think it’s worth the effort.” I wink and head for the door. “Three forty-five. End of your driveway. Looking forward to getting back on the ice with you.”
“Hey! What about your fritters?”
“Bring them to the arena. And I like all the toppings, so you can surprise me.”
I leave before she can stop me, or change her mind.
7 TAKE A CHANCE
Winter
I finish my shift at Boones and stop at the grocery store to pick up tortilla chips, sour cream, and a block of old cheddar that’s been marked down. They’ll complement the crockpot of chili I put on this morning. I stop for oil at Harry’s Hardware and grab my dad a pack of smokes at the corner store, annoyed that a chunk of my tip money goes to his bad habit instead of things we need, like fresh fruit and vegetables, or to pay bills. But I know better than to forget two days in a row. It’s not worth pissing him off.
I bust my ass home and tackle the lawn before I have a quick rinse off. It’s wildly hot this afternoon, and we don’t have the luxury of air-conditioning, so a cold shower is where it’s at. Then I test the chili and find it’s done enough to have a bowl. I use whole grain bread slathered in margarine to wipe the bowl clean and barely resist going back for seconds.
I toss a couple of dryer sheets into my hockey bag to help with freshness. It’s only three, so I message BJ to let him know he doesn’t need to pick me up. Better to avoid him coming here if I can help it.
I leave a note for my mom and do something I normally wouldn’t: lie.
I say I’m hitting the library to work on an assignment and not to wait on me for dinner. The guilt makes my stomach tight as I pedal to the arena. I arrive forty minutes early, which gives me time to catch my breath and manage my nerves. I lock up my bike and slide my arms through the straps of my hockey bag.
