Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
His smile looks positively feline. “That so?”
I head to the pantry to grab the granola. “Yeah, she thought you might like it.”
His smile widens. “She sounds like a lovely lady. When do I get to meet her?”
I freeze, the box of granola in my hand. How the hell can I picture the path of the puck down the ice during a game, but I didn’t see that coming? Telling my dad I’m seeing someone is easy since it’s true enough. Introducing him to a woman I’m having a fake real rebound with is something different.
“That’s a good question.” I return to the bowl, pour the cereal, then add some oat milk. I shove some cereal into my mouth to buy some time before answering. I chew and think, then when I finish I say, “Soon, Dad. Soon.”
I eat as fast as I can then harness Thor so we can take off. I’ll need him for the nap.
* * *
Morning skate ends right on time, and I couldn’t be happier. I shed my practice gear so fast, and am hightailing it out of the locker room when Miller nods my way. “Want to get some lunch?”
“It’s early,” I say, since it’s barely eleven.
“When did the time ever stop you from eating?” Riggs says with a laugh.
Fair point. “Just have some things to do at my place,” I grumble.
“Some things with your hand,” he tosses back.
I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for the crude joke. I make a jerking gesture with my fist. “Don’t want to mess with a streak, boys. It worked for the last game. So on that note,” I say, and then I escape from the tribunal.
I hop in my car and head to my apartment, where I already dropped off my cat this morning. I even got him a new cat tower but haven’t finished assembling it yet. Dude knows how to make do though—the trouper’s got his own catnip banana here and he’s basking with it in the windowsill of my place in Russian Hill, at the top of a building, overlooking the bay, the sun uncharacteristically shining in a bright blue sky.
Perfect.
Checking the time, I head to the closet where I keep my game day and travel suits, checking that everything’s in place and the card game is on the table.
I stop in the middle of the bedroom suite, my Alaskan king dominating the room, the rays from the sun warming my shoulders. I should feed her. It is lunchtime. Pretty sure she’s a vegetarian, so I google vegetarian options nearby, then shoot her a text.
Lake: Want some lunch? There are some veggie places nearby, and I can place an order.
Remy: I love lunch.
No idea why this detail about her makes me smile. But it does. Maybe because it feels so honest, and I get the sense that Remy doesn’t always, or often, like to let people in. So even a detail like adoration of a meal feels like a secret.
Lake: I’ll make sure it has perfectly squishy avocado.
Remy: Now I’m practically running.
I place an order. The food arrives a few minutes before she does.
And fuck me.
Remy looks good in a hoodie, in a skirt, in jeans, and in her casual attire. Black sweatpants, rolled at the waist, and a white sweatshirt that is mercifully, beautifully, fucking enticingly sloping off one shoulder.
She carries a canvas bag with the blanket in it, and her hair is swept up in a ponytail I just want to tug on.
I don’t say anything for a beat. I just stare at the beauty at my door. She’s here and I know this thing is only a rebound, a fake romance with an expiration date, a chance to show her what she deserves, but it’s also all mine.
My chance.
And I’m going to make the most of it.
* * *
I finish the last bite of a power bowl with salmon, squash, and quinoa, set down my fork, and grab the box of cards.
“All right. Let’s do it,” I say.
“For the unknown bride. Ask away.” She pushes her mostly eaten bowl of quinoa, tofu, and perfectly squishy avocado into the middle of the table.
I fish out a card and read the first question. But nope. Not going to ask that one. “Let me put this one aside,” I say, setting down the card.
She gives me a look. “C’mon. We have to do this fairly.”
“It’s a bad question.”
“I can handle it.”
She probably can but I’m selfish. I want today to go well. I want it to feel date-ish. “Remy.” It’s a warning.
“Lake,” she presses, more urgently, then reaches for the card I don’t want to read.
Ah hell. If I play keep-away, I’m a dick. With some reluctance, I let her take the card.
She reads it, her expression hardening. She swallows, looks up, and says, “What’s the most embarrassing thing to happen to you on a date?” She lowers the card, shoots me a sad smile and says, “I think you know. I think the world knows.”