Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
The admin office won’t run itself, and Juliet’s “take all the time you need” texts are starting to carry an edge of desperation.
I’m gathering my things for work at the kitchen table when Stone hobbles in from the bedroom on his crutches, Barb tailing after him like the most loyal nursemaid ever. It’s still hard to see this man, who used to be able to pin me against the wall with one arm, struggling to get around.
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” I ask. “I can dip at lunch if you want. As long as I make an appearance, I—”
“Oh, stop,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep. “I’ll be fine. Barb’s here, ready to wait on me hand and paw, isn’t that right, Barb?”
Barb barks on cue, making us both smile.
“Go, do your thing,” he adds, pausing to kiss my cheek on his way to the coffee. “Save the Badgers from death by paperwork. I’ll still be here and in need of your gentle healing touch when you get back.”
“But seriously, what if you need something Barb can’t reach?”
And what if I run into Dad in the halls at the arena, and he ignores me in person the way he ignored my text yesterday? What if this rift between us really is permanent?
What if I’ve lost him for good?
If so, I know it won’t be because I’m a horrible daughter or asked for anything that an adult child shouldn’t be able to expect from a parent, but still…
My anxiety levels are much higher than usual today, and a weak part of me would be just fine with hiding out at Stone’s for another three days.
Or thirty.
Or three hundred…
“I’ll text if I’m in trouble for any reason, but don’t worry. I can always call Sophie if there’s an emergency.” Stone pours his coffee. “And I won’t be alone for long, anyway. Martha from my decoupage class is coming over at ten. We’re going to craft while she makes me cookies because I’m just a poor, precious baby who needs cookies.”
I arch a brow. “Right. Did you tell Martha that your mom already sent you three different kinds of cookies? And she’s coming down on Friday to make you more?”
He flashes that golden retriever grin that charms me every time, even when I know full well he’s using it to manipulate me the same way he’s manipulating every soft-hearted baker in a five-mile radius. “Hush, woman. What are you? The cookie police? Martha loves to bake. And she loves my vintage National Geographic collection for sourcing decoupage. It’s a win-win. But I mean…if you have extra time before work, there is one thing I would love.”
“What’s that?”
He shoots me his best puppy dog eyes. “Well, if I’m going to eat cookies all day, I should probably have a healthy breakfast first. And what’s healthier than low-sugar roasted peach oatmeal with extra peaches and pecans?”
“From The Grainhouse?” My brows lift. “That’s at least a ten-minute walk, and there’s no easy way to drive there. Build in time to order and get back, and we’re talking a thirty-minute side quest before I head to work.”
“Oh, is it that far? I didn’t realize.” His innocent expression wouldn’t fool a toddler, and his heavy sigh is ridiculously tragic. “Never mind, then. They don’t deliver or even let other delivery drivers pick up there, so…I guess I’ll just grab something from the fridge. Like an old yogurt or a crusty piece of cheese. I’m sure the cheddar isn’t too moldy yet…”
“Oh my God, you’re terrible,” I say, laughing as I slap his ass before heading for the door. “Fine, but I’ll have to leave right now. No time to fix Barb’s pup cup or do my makeup.”
His triumphant grin is equal parts adorable and eye-roll-inducing. What must it be like to be born a golden boy? I have no idea, but at least I’m not alone in having a hard time saying no to him. And it’s not like he doesn’t spoil me every chance he gets.
“Thank you,” he calls after me. “You’re the best girlfriend ever, and you don’t need makeup to be prettier than all the princesses. Right, Barb? Remy is prettier than Ariel and Merida. Sexier, too.”
Barb barks in agreement, a fact I acknowledge with a small bow before grabbing my coat from the closet. It’s getting chillier in Portland, with the fall foliage fading from its peak and winter just around the corner.
“Thank you, Barbara,” I say. “Make sure he stays out of trouble while I’m gone.” To Stone, I add, “If I don’t have time to bring the food up myself, I’ll have Bruce bring it, okay?”
Bruce, the doorman, is a huge Badgers fan and has offered at least a hundred times to do whatever it takes to get Stone back on the ice ASAP. He thinks Stone is the glue that holds the offense together, and I can’t disagree.