Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
That corner of his mouth tilts up. “You ever turn that off?”
“Rarely.” I shrug, trying to act casual, as if I’m unaware of how close he’s standing to me.
“I figured,” he says. “You don’t seem like the type of woman who pauses very often.”
His tone makes it clear he doesn’t mind. Or maybe, and far more dangerously, that he’s already wondering what it would take to make me forget it.
“Did Birdie not want to come?” I ask. Last I’d talked to her—we now text frequently and have plans to go out for drinks this Thursday—she was considering coming.
“Fancy parties aren’t really her thing,” Crosby says. “Although she did make me promise to sneak her home a doggie bag of fancy food.”
We fall into conversation without effort, the way you do when the silence between you has already been broken elsewhere.
“This week felt longer than it should’ve,” he says, angling his body slightly toward mine, one shoulder turned away from the room like he’s unconsciously closing a door. “Road days always do that.”
“I was starting to think time works differently on team planes,” I reply. “Everything is either frantic or suspended. There’s no in-between.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”
I smile, and it feels familiar now. A week ago, I would’ve been cataloging this moment. Tonight, I let it exist.
We talk about the travel schedule, about the way flights and hotel lobbies all blur together. He asks what I do when I’m not filming, and I tell him about a coffee place I’ve started defaulting to near the rink. He tells me about a late-night diner he found and goes to when sleep won’t come.
My mind strays, acutely aware of how close we’re standing. Close enough that if I shifted my weight, my arm would brush his. Close enough that I can smell whatever clean, understated scent he wears. His focus stays on me even as people drift past, even as someone calls his name from across the room and he ignores it without comment.
Crosby hasn’t touched me and I don’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed.
There’s definitely a feeling between us that I can’t quite put my finger on. It reassures me—this restraint, this unspoken agreement that whatever this is doesn’t need to be claimed.
But it also leaves a low hum of frustration beneath my ribs, a question mark where certainty wants to be.
He glances down at my glass. “You’re barely drinking.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “I like to remember things.”
His gaze lifts back to mine, steady. “Yeah. Me too.”
Movement catches the corner of my eye, and I see Cherry walking into the room. She struts in like she’s on the red carpet.
Her dress is striking—cut low, fitted, unapologetically designed to draw eyes. She looks radiant and sexy, completely aware of exactly what she’s doing and who’s watching.
Miller is with her, hand at her back, pride written all over his face. He looks thrilled to have eyes on her, clearly okay with this part of the package he married.
They walk through the crowd, Cherry stopping intermittently to air-kiss some of the other significant others, telling me she’s very much insinuated herself into the team dynamics. She’s loud, not in a completely obnoxious way, but enough so that she garners eyes and attention.
“And the spotlight has found its mark,” I murmur, glancing at Crosby.
He snorts, lips curving upward. “She’s really good at that type of thing.”
I angle his way. “You know, it’s funny… I don’t get it—if she was always like that, what attracted you to her in the first place?”
Crosby tilts his head at me. “That’s the thing. She wasn’t always like that. She became that way after we started dating.”
“You mean after she started dating star power,” I surmise.
“Exactly. And after we got engaged, that’s when she sort of went all in with it. In hindsight, that’s who she was all along. It was suppressed at first.”
A wave of empathy hits me. I’ve never been in love, and I’ve never been in a committed relationship. I might have some trust issues based on my childhood, but I very much understand… he suffered a loss. “I’m sorry. It couldn’t have been easy to watch what you fell in love with turn out to be an illusion.”
Crosby shrugs. “Honestly… I question if it was really love.”
“Because she seemed to like the spotlight more than the relationship?” I ask bluntly.
He shakes his head. “No. Because I wasn’t sad when it ended, I was relieved.”
I take a moment to be impressed with this man who seems so planted in reality. I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone so self-aware and possessed with confidence. But then I notice him stiffen, his eyes drifting past me, and I turn that way.
Cherry is beelining our way, her eyes pinned on Crosby. Miller follows two paces behind, wearing a displeased grimace.