Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Daisy’s stares into my eyes. “Growing up there was… fine. Boring as hell. I spent my whole life planning how I’d get out. And hockey did that for me.”
“What about your family?”
“I have an older brother who’s the police chief, and my parents still live in town.” I give her the bare-bones edition because, honestly, there isn’t much to tell. Before now, I didn’t really have a life besides hockey.
She blinks, absorbing that. No snark, just quiet curiosity. “You close with your folks?”
I nod, not bothering to dress it up. “Yeah. They worked their asses off so I could play hockey. Once I joined the pros, they both retired.”
Before she can respond, the waiter reappears and sets our drinks down, then drops a basket so full of breadsticks the thing sags in the middle. I swear, Daisy lights up at the sight of them. “Oh, man. I could live on breadsticks alone.” She groans and shoves half a stick into her mouth.
Goddamn. Her moan goes straight to my cock. Watching her eat causes my blood pressure to spike.
I tear my eyes off her mouth long enough to take a sip of my beer.
“So, what’s the wildest thing you did in your hometown?” she asks.
I want to impress her, but my real adolescence was a lot less Animal House and a lot more midnight skating on the town pond.
I finally settle on, “Once, when I was sixteen, I dared a buddy to icefish a keg out of the harbor on New Year’s. Tide went out, so did the keg. Whole operation was a bust, but we spent twelve hours freezing our balls off, drunk on water-logged beer and humiliation.”
She actually laughs. “That’s the most Maine thing I’ve ever heard.”
I point my fork at her. “You can mock, but at least we have seasons back there. You people just get ‘hot as balls’ and ‘slightly less hot as balls.’”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure I’d like freezing my bits off half the year.”
I’m tempted to offer to keep her bits warm, but I hold the words behind my tongue. There’s this comfort in the way she owns every opinion, never hedging, always calling her shot.
I let my knee drift under the table, anchoring against the leg to keep from fidgeting. I want to reach across, drag her close, see what she’d do if I just forgot about all the unspoken rules.
Instead, I polish off the last bite and wipe my mouth, giving her a quick, unscripted grin.
She watches, waiting.
The waiter drops the check between us. Daisy’s hand flashes out, but I’m faster. I slide the folder toward me.
I hold eye contact and give her a grin. “It’s my turn to pay.”
Her gaze lingers on me, sharp and searching, but she doesn’t fight it.
I drive her back to The Sin Bin, both of us lost in our thoughts, but the air in the cab is tight with possibility. The city’s doing its thing outside the windows, cars blaring by, sun hammering down, all the usual background chaos. None of it makes a dent.
I park behind the bar, trying to come up with some way to keep the date going, when Daisy turns in her seat and pins me with those green eyes. “You want to see my place?”
My pulse spikes like she just challenged me to overtime.
“Absolutely,” I say. No hesitation, no bullshit.
She reads that in my face, and I swear something flashes in her eyes. I walk around the truck and help her out. She slips her soft hand in mine and leads the way through the alley and up a set of freshly painted iron stairs.
The stairwell is narrow, brick walls closing in on both sides. At the top, she unlocks a heavy door with “PRIVATE” painted in yellow across the black door.
We step inside, and I look around. It’s small, barely enough room for one person. But the second I step in, it hits me that this place is all Daisy. Rose fills the air, reminding me of Daisy. Against the wall, there’s a dark blue couch with throw pillows in colors that don’t match but somehow work. Across from it is a small wooden bookcase with a small TV on top and shelves lined with books. Off to the other side, there’s a small table with two chairs.
Light pours in through a window above the sink. There’s a small galley-sized kitchen. Everything’s organized—dishes stacked, mugs lined up like soldiers, plants in mismatched pots by the window.
She stands just inside the door, smiling.
“It used to be a storeroom.” She laughs. “I didn’t want to take on a mortgage while I’m trying to make double payments on the bar, so I fixed up this old stockroom to live in.”
Everything about this apartment screams Daisy. It’s precise and practical, but with flashes of color.