“Want to come with me and Jules to the pub? We can grab some apps and a drink?” Pattie threads her arm through mine. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her all day, since we’ve both been fully booked.
“I’d love to, but I have to deal with Joey.” We walk down the hall toward the lobby. My mood has been decent until now.
“I thought you did that last night.”
“There was an interruption.”
Her eyebrows rise. “A neighborly interruption?”
“Yuppers.” I stop short as we approach the front desk, which means Pattie also comes to an abrupt halt, since our arms are linked. “What the . . .”
Bishop is leaning on the front desk and talking to the receptionist, Bernice, who looks like her head is about to explode.
“Whoa. Who’s the hottie?” Pattie asks.
“That’s Bishop.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Wow. I’m used to seeing him with a furrowed brow and a lot of hockey gear.”
“I’m used to seeing him in his underwear.”
“I didn’t realize how lucky you were until now. That man is ridiculously hot.”
“Yeah.” And I was dry humping him last night while he almost cried in pain. I unhook my arm from Pattie’s and close the remaining distance, stopping a few feet away. “Uh, hey.”
Bernice is midsentence, probably telling Bishop all about her poodle, Duchess, based on the vacant look on his face. At the sound of my voice, his head snaps in my direction. His eyes drop all the way to my shoes and slowly rise to my face. “I’m guessing you didn’t get my message.”
“I’m guessing not. Pattie, this is Bishop; Bishop, this is my friend and colleague Pattie, who is also a physical therapist.”
They shake hands, and to Pattie’s credit, she plays it totally cool, but then her brothers play college football, which is almost like having a celebrity in your family.
I rummage around in my backpack in search of my phone. Of course it’s at the bottom of the bag, which makes things awkward, especially since I can feel Bishop staring at me while he and Pattie make small talk. “Want to give me the CliffsNotes version?”
“I’m taking you to the douche ex’s to get your suitcase.”
Pattie choke-coughs on a laugh.
I slap Bishop on the arm and look around for Joey, since he’s supposed to drive us to his place. Which was supposed to be our place. This should be super fun and awkward all the way around.
“I sent him home already,” Bishop says.
I don’t even need to look at his face to know he’s smirking.
“How are we getting to his place, then? I’m not taking the bus with you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they are. Bishop doesn’t need to keep travel costs down by taking public transit. Although for a few seconds I imagine what it would be like for him to have to jam his mammoth body into one of those tiny seats.
He holds up a set of keys. “I drove here.”
I snatch them out of his hand. “You should not be driving.”
“I made it here just fine.”
I prop a fist on my hip. “Have you even been cleared to drive?”
“I’ve been cleared for light workouts, so driving seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”
“Are you serious with this? One is in no way related to the other. At all. What if you had to react quickly? Or brake hard? You can’t even do a hip thrust without crying.”
“Untrue. I can do a hip thrust fine, just not with any weight on my thighs.”
I can feel my face turning red. I shoot him a warning glare. “No driving until you’re cleared, and I want that in writing, not words from your mouth. I won’t have you undoing all my hard work. The last thing I need is you reverting back to a super a-hole.”
“This is better than daytime soap operas,” Pattie says, reminding me that I’m chewing Bishop out in the middle of reception, and he’s grinning like I’ve told him I’m taking him for ice cream.
“You’re not helping,” I tell her, then give Bishop my attention again. “We should go before people start to recognize you.”
“I’m not high profile enough to get recognized around here,” Bishop argues.
And, of course, because the universe is on my side and clearly agrees with me, two clients come up to him and ask for autographs and photos. I offer to take the pictures, and I make him pose for at least twenty shots before I finally pass their phones back. I put on a sweatshirt and pull the hood up to hide behind before we leave. I also put on my gigantic aviator-style glasses.
“What’re you doing?” Bishop asks.
“Covering myself up in case people recognize you again and want to take more pictures.”
He flicks a loose lock of pale-blue hair. “You stand out way more than me.”
“Whatever. Let’s just go.”
Bishop is still on crutches and seems to enjoy shambling along at a snail’s pace. “Can you move faster?” I mutter from behind the safety of my hood.
“I thought you didn’t want me to reinjure myself.”
“You have a groin pull. You’re not suddenly a ninety-five-year-old with brittle bones and a double hip replacement.”
He tugs on the back of my hood. “If anyone is drawing attention, it’s you with this freaking sweatshirt on when it’s over seventy degrees and half the girls wandering around here are dressed like they’re ready to go to the beach.”
“That’s because they’re college students and it’s a prerequisite to dress for weather ten degrees warmer than it actually is. I’m being reasonable with my hoodie.”
“Not even a little.”
We manage to make it to his car—thank God he doesn’t drive something ostentatious and expensive like my brother does—without anyone accosting him. Since I have the keys, I rush around to the driver’s side and close myself inside while he fumbles around with his crutches and lowers himself into the passenger seat.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You managed to get yourself here just fine.”
I haven’t driven to what was supposed to be my apartment ever, so I have to program it into Bishop’s GPS. I’m anxious about going to Joey’s and Bishop being with me. I’m also freaked out about last night, and I’m waiting for him to bring it up, but he doesn’t. He sits in the passenger seat, tapping his fingers on the armrest.
“You know what I find interesting?” he finally says.
“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”
He stretches his arm across the back of my seat and fingers a lock of my hair. I know he’s touching it because I can feel his hand resting on my shoulder. Also, he gives it a tug. “That you’ll change the color of your hair to something that stands out but hide behind a hood because of the possibility that some random person you don’t know is going to recognize me. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. You know that, right?”
“The two are unrelated.”
“Your hair screams ‘Look at me.’”
“But no one wants to take pictures of me and get my autograph because of it. All they know is that I have fun hair. They don’t know I’m related to Rook, or that I’m . . . working on rehab with you, but if they see me with you or my brother, all of a sudden I stop being the girl with the fun hair and I start being Rook Bowman’s sister or that chick who was with Bishop Winslow.”
He doesn’t say anything in response. Instead he keeps twisting my hair around his finger. I can feel him looking at me still, and it’s distracting. Thankfully, we arrive at what was supposed to be my apartment building. I parallel park down the street and try to force myself to get out of the car, but all I can do is sit there, gripping the steering wheel and staring at the building.
“You okay?” Bishop asks after God knows how long. He pulls my hood down and slips his fingers under my hair. His calloused palm curves around the nape of my neck, just like last night. His thumb sweeps back and forth, slow and soothing.
I’m so screw
ed. I like this guy, and I shouldn’t for a lot of reasons, most of which I cited last night in my head. The other reasons, the ones I haven’t voiced, are the ones that plague me the most. As much as I believe Bishop’s reasons for wanting me to rehab him. What if I’m wrong? It would be a pretty elaborate plan on his part, and it would also put him on par with a sociopath, but I also didn’t realize that I was pretty much dating one of those for an entire year until I walked in on him with someone else. And he’s not sorry because he hurt me. He’s sorry because he got caught.
I also don’t want Joey to be right that I’m using Bishop for more than just an opportunity to rehab an NHL player. I would prefer not to turn him into a rebound.
I’m a bit of an emotional mess, if I really think about it. I don’t want to drag Bishop into that, but I’ve already started to get attached to, and depend on, him. I don’t say any of those things, though. I might be an emotional mess, but I’m not stupid.
“I haven’t been back here since the night I arrived.”
“You mean since—”
“I caught Joey screwing someone else.”
“On your birthday.”
“On my birthday.” Shit. I think I might cry. It’s dumb. It’s been weeks since it happened, but coming here makes it all feel fresh again.
“What’s the apartment number? I’ll get your suitcase for you.”
I finally let go of the steering wheel and look at him. “You can’t do that. It’s a heavy bag; you’ll set yourself back.”
“I’ll be fine, and you’ll stretch me out when we get home.”
I rub my temples. “I still have to organize the decorations with him.”
“We’ll take care of it when we get home too.”
“But Joey signed us up to work on this thing together.” Avoiding him entirely isn’t a great strategy, and it definitely isn’t one I can continue to employ forever. But in this case maybe it’s better to have Bishop deal with Joey until I’m truly ready to do it on my own.
“And Joey is a dickhead who doesn’t deserve to spend five seconds in your presence. Don’t worry. We’ll get it all sorted out. Nolan works at one of those party warehouses, so he’ll have loads of hookups for us.”
“That’s an odd place to work.”
“The hours are flexible, and he’s a part-time manager. We might as well take advantage, since he has the connections.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Joey thinks you and I are together.”
“Good. Let him think that. Isn’t that actually better for you anyway? Won’t it get him off your ass?”
“He called you my rebound.” Goddamn it. Why can’t I keep my stupid mouth shut?
Bishop shifts as much as he can so he’s turned toward me. His knees hit the center console, and his thumb keeps sweeping back and forth on that sensitive spot behind my ear. “Does that bother you?”
“Does it bother you?” I fire back, because answering that question is complicated, and the truth makes me feel way too vulnerable.
“Coming from your dickbag ex? Not in the least. That guy is going to say anything he can to get under your skin and into your head.” He gives the back of my neck a squeeze. “Let him believe whatever he wants. What’s the apartment number?”
“One-two-one-three.”
“I’ll be back.”
He unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of the car. The back door opens, and he nabs a single crutch. Before he hobbles off, he taps on the window, so I roll it down.
“Just to be clear, you don’t want me to beat the fuck out of this guy?”
“No. You have a groin injury, and that is the opposite of helpful for healing.”
“Is that the only reason you don’t want me to beat his ass?”
“Mostly, yes. Plus I still have to work with him.”
Bishop purses his lips but nods. “Okay. Noted.”
I watch him enter the building, trying to understand what the hell is going on between us. I’m so confused. It seems to take an actual eon for him to finally return. I get out of the car so I can help him with my suitcase. Surprisingly, it’s still in one piece. I just hope all my things are still in it.
“Is he still alive?” I hoist the suitcase in the trunk.
“He’s fine. I mean, his ego might not be in the best shape, but if he’s been causing you problems, I don’t think he will anymore.”
“What did you say to him?”
“That he’s a stupid asshole and he doesn’t deserve you and he’s lucky he ever had you at all. I also told him I’d be helping you take care of whatever this party shit is, because you shouldn’t have to deal with him.” He closes the trunk. “Oh, and I told him he needs to stop texting you all the time. If you want to talk to him, you’ll be the one to reach out. I also said that was really un-fucking-likely, since I plan to monopolize all of your spare time.”
I tip my head back so I can look up at Bishop. God, he’s beautiful. Ruggedly stunning. And he showed up at my work today out of the blue. And told off my ex-boyfriend. I’m going to be super lucky if I don’t start bawling. “Thank you for doing that for me.”
“I did it as much for me as I did it for you. I’m hungry as fuck, are you? Confrontation always makes me want to eat.”
And just like that, the urge to cry disappears. I snort a very unbecoming laugh. “Something greasy and definitely not on your preseason diet?”
A grin tips up the corner of his mouth. “It’s like you can read my mind. But we’re not going for pizza, because I can’t deal with the olives-and-pineapple shit.”
He tosses his crutch into the back seat and heads for the driver’s side.
“Hey, what’re you doing?”
“I’m gonna drive.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. You’re emotional and you look like you’re halfway to yelling or crying, or maybe both. Besides, they cleared me to drive today.”
“I don’t believe you. Who is ‘they’? Why didn’t you tell me that back at the clinic? Why wait until now?”
He shrugs. “Because I like watching you get all riled up. It makes me happy that you get so pissed off when you think I’m doing something I shouldn’t.”
“I am shooting laser beams out of my eyes at you. I want proof that you’ve been cleared.”
“That’s what I told my team PT, so you should check your email. You can do it on the way to get food. I’m about to get hangry, and if you think I’m an asshole on a good day, wait until I haven’t been fed.”
While he drives, I pull my phone out of my purse and do as he says. I find the email he’s talking about—the one where he’s cleared to drive short distances—and grumble about him being forthcoming from now on.
We stop at a burger drive-through, where Bishop orders enough food to feed a family of four, and we eat burgers and slurp shakes in the parking lot.
“Can I ask you something?” Bishop pops one of my fries into his mouth, having already finished all four of his burgers and his own extra-large fries. I’m not even sure he tasted his food.
I shrug. “Sure.”
“How did you end up with that douche?”
I swirl a fry in ketchup and think back to when I met Joey. I’d just moved from New York to LA for my master’s program. I’d met him on the first day of class, and he asked if I wanted to get a drink. I’d said yes. “I was lonely, and he was there, I guess.”
After several long seconds in which the only sound is our chewing, I finally look over at Bishop.
“Wanna add anything else to that, like maybe an actual explanation?” He steals another fry and reaches for my shake, because apparently he’s already finished his, as well.
“You can have these.” I trade my shake for the fries.
“I’m sorry. I’m probably pushing it, aren’t I?”
“It’s okay. It’s all stuff I think about but don’t usually say out loud. Honestly, I don’t know why I ended up with him for an entire year. I think maybe it was part
ly because I didn’t want to be alone? That I wanted someone who was . . . mine? When I moved to LA, I had this idea that I’d be spending all this time with my brother Kyle and his wife, Joy, and my nephew Max.”
“And that’s not how it turned out?”
I chew on the end of my straw. “Nope, not even a little. I felt like an outsider, kind of . . . displaced, I guess. Like I didn’t have a real role anymore. Kyle had Joy and Max, and I didn’t have anyone.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
I nod. “I missed all the things that were familiar. Then my mom sold the farm and moved out to LA, too, which was nice because it meant I had her around again, but she spent a lot of time with my brother’s family, which was understandable since it was her first grandchild, but I still felt like something was missing, which was when I met Joey. So in a lot of ways I guess he ended up being a convenient distraction from all the other stuff going on. I think I knew early on that it wasn’t a great fit, but for a while it was better than the alternative.”
“Which was what?” He slurps my shake, which is now empty as well, based on the loud suction sound.
“Being alone, I guess? Having everyone worry about me? RJ had just reconnected with Lainey, he had a baby, and there I was, out in LA, trying to glom on to my family because I didn’t know how to be on my own, and everyone else was busy with their own things. I had school, but . . . I needed . . . something.”
Bishop twirls a lock of my hair around his finger. “Or someone?”
“I thought moving to LA would make everything easier.”
“Easier how?”
“Not being faced with the memory of my dad every single day and how he was just . . . gone. We were really close, like, super tight. I think my mom selling the house and the farm hit me a lot harder than I expected it to, you know? I couldn’t go back to New York during holidays because we didn’t have a place to stay anymore, and all the memories of my dad were no longer tangible. I couldn’t walk into the living room and see his recliner or remember him falling asleep in it. My mom sold the truck we used to go for drives in because it wouldn’t have survived the trip to LA. It was a lot of change in a short span of time, and I think I hadn’t really grieved the loss. Or it was a new level of grieving. I don’t know.”
A Favor for a Favor Page 17
