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)
We were exhausted and both of us fell into bed, sound asleep when our heads hit the pillows, and I swear it felt like only a few hours later Crosby was nudging me awake. “Come on… let’s go grocery shopping.”
And here we are.
“This is not enough food,” I say, peering into the cart as it rattles to a stop beside me.
He looks down, then back at me. “It’s plenty.”
“We’ve got enough ground beef for maybe four burgers,” I point out, “and two vegetables.”
“One vegetable,” he corrects mildly. “The peppers don’t count.”
“They absolutely count.”
“They’re garnish.”
I step in front of the cart, arms crossing. “You invited people over and we have an obligation to feed them properly.”
Crosby grins down at me and I get the distinct feeling he wants to tap his finger on the end of my nose because he thinks I’m cute.
“I invited Arch and Evan,” he says easily. “They’re hardly ‘people.’”
“That still doesn’t explain why you think two ears of corn is sufficient.”
He studies me for a moment, mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile. Then he lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. Show me what you’d add.”
“Follow me,” I instruct.
I lead him around the store, grabbing more hamburger and corn, a container of salad greens, buns that look artisanal, and a few bags of chips. When I pick up a bottle of sauce with a label promising regret as evidenced by the five-chili-pepper scale on the side, his eyebrow lifts.
“Trust me,” I say.
“I do,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
We turn the corner into the dairy aisle, and that’s when a small voice pipes up behind us.
“Mom. Mom. Mooommmm!”
We both turn to see a boy, maybe about eight years old, clutching a tiny hockey stick like it’s an extension of his arm. His eyes are wide, reverent and locked on Crosby. His other hand is pulling hard on his mom’s hoodie, trying to get her attention.
“What?” she says impatiently, looking down at him, then following his wide-eyed gaze to Crosby. His mother freezes, jaw sagging as she obviously recognizes the Wildfire goalie.
“Mom,” the little boy says again, tugging on her hoodie, even though he has her attention. “It’s Crosby Hale.”
“So I see,” she says, and then looks to Crosby with questioning eyes, as if to request permission to interact with him.
I could have told her such a request was unnecessary because the one thing that has probably touched me the most about getting to know this man is his soft spot for children. He never rushes interactions with them, taking extra time to really talk to them on their level.
Crosby crouches without hesitation, dropping until he’s eye level with the kid. “Hey, buddy.”
The boy beams. “Wow… I can’t believe you’re grocery shopping.”
“I am,” Crosby says, smiling like it’s a shared secret. “You helping your mom?”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing up at her and then reconsidering. “No, not really. I didn’t want to come, but now I’m glad I did.”
Crosby laughs and then nods at the stick in the kid’s hand. “You play?”
The boy’s head bobs up and down. “My dad taught me. I play defense.”
“Good choice,” Crosby says solemnly. “Goalies need defense.”
The kid nods like he’s been knighted.
I stand back, watching the exchange unfold. Crosby talks to him like what he has to say is important, like he’s just a kid who loves the game. When Crosby stands again, he gestures to me.
“This is Juno.”
Not my girlfriend.
Not the filmmaker.
Only my name.
I smile at the boy. “Nice to meet you. Would you and your mom like a picture with Crosby?”
Both mom and kid are ecstatic, both lamenting his dad isn’t there to see this. I take several photos with the mom’s camera, and she asks for an autograph, digging around in her purse for a pen and paper.
After they move off, I slip my hand into the crook of Crosby’s arm as we push the cart down the international foods aisle. “You’re good with kids. You want them?”
“Sure,” he says. “One day. You?”
“I think so,” I murmur. “I mean… I think I’d be a good mom. I’m not one of those people who believes my past trauma has ruined me. If anything, I feel like I know exactly how not to be.”
Crosby stops so suddenly, my arm dislodges from his. I turn to him with my eyebrows raised.
“That right there,” he says.
I’m confused. “That right there, what?”
“That’s why I like you so much. You’re so confident and slightly rational, and honestly, Ms. Paxton… it’s really hot.”
I dip into a tiny curtsy, inclining my head. “Why thank you, Mr. Hale. That’s very kind of you.”
He leans into me, hand to the back of my neck, and pulls me to him for a soft kiss. “You definitely were not on my radar when I came to the Portland Wildfire.”