Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I rise up on tiptoe and cup his cheeks, sighing affectionately. “A neat freak who drives a Swedish car and plans midnight dates.”
“I know. I’m awesome,” he says, then swats my ass. “Now get out of the way so I can cook for you.”
I set out a cutting board, knife, and pan, then trot over to a stool, park myself on it, and enjoy the front-row seat to a hot hockey player making me a veggie BLT—complete with fake bacon.
As he slices the tomato, I sigh happily. “What’ll you do when you finish playing hockey? Open a late-night grilled cheese and BLT pop-up shop? A girl can dream.”
“Not a bad idea.”
Which brings up a valid question. “Seriously though. What will you do? You’re a planner. You probably have three priorities for retirement.”
He nods. “I do.”
But that’s all he says. Hmm. Is it a secret?
I debate leaving it alone, but I’ve never been good at that. “What are they?”
As he washes the lettuce, he says, “My health—always a top priority. Second would be keeping busy doing something I love. Third would be…” His gaze goes slightly wistful, almost dreamy, as he opens the package of Facon and drops a few slices into the pan. “Third would be spending time with my dog. So to answer your question—for two, I’m debating between going into broadcasting and opening a smoothie shop.”
I sit up straighter. “Really?”
“Really. I think I’d like both. I’ll decide after we win the Cup this year.” He pauses, his gaze contemplative, spatula midair. “That’s the first time I’ve shared that with anyone.”
My heart does a little flippy-flop. I’m all sorts of giddy. “Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re easy to talk to, Skylar,” he says—offhand, but full of meaning.
My chest is warm as I respond in kind with a, “You too.”
After he slices some sourdough bread, he asks, “What about you?”
“I’m not retiring anytime soon, buddy,” I tease.
“Is this your dream? The eco-friendly design?”
“Yes. I’m doing exactly what I want.” I pause, giving my own question some thought. But I already know the answer. “I suppose my dream is to keep doing more jobs like this —the full house, where I have the chance to really make a difference with my brand of design.”
“You’ll succeed,” he says, then finishes making some delicious-looking BLTs.
He plates one for himself and one for me, then slides onto a stool beside me.
In my pajamas and tank top, I indulge in the most delicious late-night snack—made just for me.
Later, we go back upstairs, with my dog under the covers, his in one of Simon’s many beds, and Ford in mine.
“Ford,” I whisper quietly as moonlight streaks through the window, illuminating his handsome face. “Is the third priority really just your dog?”
“Ah, you noticed that,” he says, with a soft laugh—one that says he knows he was caught.
“Yeah. I did.”
He sighs. Hesitates. Then finally, he says, “I was going to say…spend time with people I care about. And my dog.”
My heart thumps harder. “Why didn’t you?”
He’s quiet again, his brow furrowed. “It seemed…”
But I think I know the end of that sentence. Or at least I hope I do. You’re one of those people. I don’t want him to feel pressured to say that though. So I jump in with a save. “It seemed like too much?”
He takes a beat, and when he answers, his tone is just shy of somber. “Maybe, Skylar. Maybe it seemed like too much.”
But too much what? Too much to want? Too much too soon?
I don’t press.
Not tonight.
It’s safer that way.
30
VERY SERIOUS LOOK
FORD
“Ten. I did exactly ten,” Corbin gloats to Leah, then tips his chin to me as I do another lateral hop. “He just did thirteen.”
Shit. He’s right. I did more reps with the medicine ball than Leah wanted.
“I noticed,” the conditioning coach says.
Why didn’t you stop me? I want to say to Leah. But that’s a weak excuse. I can fucking count.
Fact is, I stopped counting.
“Just seeing if you were paying attention,” I say to my buddy, deflecting with an even weaker excuse.
Corbin scoffs, eye roll included. “You were off in la-la land.”
Leah gives me a stern look—but it’s chased with concern as she adds, “I think you were too.”
I swallow, then square my shoulders, trying to shrug it off. “Just thinking about the next game,” I say, owning it as best I can. “Won’t happen again.”
But the game was the furthest thing from my mind.
The truth is…I was daydreaming. Goddammit. I was thinking of the gala. Of Skylar. Picturing undressing her after the event. Letting slim straps fall down her shoulders. Kissing those freckles that drive me mad. Hiking the soft fabric of her gown up to her hips. Fucking her against the wall as neither of us could be bothered to take off all our clothes.
Then making her a late-night snack. Again. Taking our dogs for a walk together. Watching her clever brain spin up a social media post for her dog, like she did the other morning when she posted two pics. One was a shot of herself, looking tired and sad, with the caption: I’ve been working all day. He hasn’t worked since I met him three years ago and doesn’t want a job. He expects me to make dinner and clean up every day, doesn’t help, and gets upset when I leave the house.