Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Juno makes a sound and Crosby heaves out a sigh.
“What?” Birdie looks at her. “She’s going to find out eventually. Better from us.”
I look between them. “I’ve gathered there’s a history.”
“History is one word for it,” Arch says.
Crosby utters a low warning. “Birdie…”
“Cherry Parks,” Birdie begins, intent on delivering a briefing while ignoring her brother, “was previously engaged to our darling Crosby. Three years ago. He ended it. She handled that with complete grace and maturity.” She pauses, shakes her head. “Okay… I’m lying. She did not handle it with grace or maturity.”
“To be fair,” Crosby says, “it was a long time ago.”
Birdie gives him a look that is pure older sister. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Give people more credit than they deserve.”
“Or exactly the credit they deserve,” he says mildly. “Depending on how you look at it.”
Juno is watching him with an expression she probably doesn’t know is completely transparent.
“The short version,” Arch says, taking over with the efficiency of a bystander who has heard this story enough times to edit it, “is that Cherry married Miller, Miller got picked up in the expansion draft, they ended up here, and Cherry decided the best use of her time was convincing Miller that Crosby was still carrying a torch.” He glances at Crosby. “Which—”
“Was not the case,” Crosby says flatly.
“Was spectacularly not the case,” Arch confirms. “Crosby is many things. A man pining for his ex is not one of them.” He glances toward Juno.
“It created problems,” Juno says carefully, and I can hear the documentary filmmaker in her choosing words. “For Crosby. For Miller. For team chemistry.” She pauses. “Patrick handled it.”
“Patrick handled it,” Birdie echoes, and that tells me everything about what it means when coming from the franchise owner.
“Miller’s a good guy,” Crosby says. “He got fed a version of events that wasn’t real and he believed it because—” He stops.
“Because Cherry is very convincing when she wants to be,” Birdie finishes.
“And because he loves her,” Crosby adds. Which is generous enough that Birdie visibly recalibrates her expression. “Whatever else is true, he loves her. I don’t hold that against him.”
“I met her for all of twenty seconds when I walked in,” I provide, but I keep the weird wine situation to myself.
“She seems different tonight,” Birdie says on a confused huff. “I’ll give her that.”
“She warmly greeted both me and Crosby,” Juno offers. “All water under the bridge.”
“It’s a little like watching someone hit their marks,” Arch says, not unkindly. “But she’s hitting them.”
“Then we give her the chance to keep hitting them,” Crosby says simply.
I see something in my peripheral vision—the front door opening, a figure coming through.
Locke Donovan stands just inside the entrance, still in his coat, holding a bottle of wine at his side. He looks on guard, like he told himself he wasn’t going to come and yet somehow showed up.
I suppress a smile at what I recognize as an Arvendale bottle in his hand. I sent him a quick reminder text last night about today’s gathering and suggested he might want to bring a gift for the hosts.
As if on cue, Cherry appears and forces air-kisses on Locke, who, to his credit, accepts them and offers up the bottle. He’s in tailored brown trousers and a deep navy dress shirt, collar open at the throat. He’s freshly shaved, which I’ve yet to see, and God, is he gorgeous.
I take exactly one second to notice and then I firmly redirect myself.
Cherry moves off and Locke scans the room—quick, comprehensive, probably cataloging exits and threats and then calculating the distance between himself and everyone else. When his gaze finds mine, I feel something pass between us.
Not relief, but maybe… recognition of someone who gets him.
I raise my hand, motion for him to join us, and he walks our way.
“You came,” I say with a smile when he reaches our group.
“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?” he says with a devilish smirk, a reminder this was a bargain.
“You always have a choice,” I say. “Glad you made the right one. And I see you followed my suggestion and brought wine.”
“Well, you said it was good manners to bring a gift.”
Locke glances around at the group and lifts his chin at Crosby, who returns it like they would communicate on the ice—without words. His eyes move to Juno and Arch, both of whom he sees daily.
Then they land on Birdie.
“Birdie Hale,” she says, extending her hand. “Crosby’s better-looking sibling.”
Crosby doesn’t react and I’m betting he’s heard some version of this his entire life.
Locke shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Birdie tilts her head slightly, studying Locke with discerning eyes. “Is that a Boston accent?”
Locke looks mildly surprised, which for him means one barely perceptible blink. “Yeah.”
Her face lights with joy. “I love Boston. Spent eight months there on a harbor infrastructure contract two years ago. Charlestown, mostly.”