by Maria Luis
“That’s an understatement.”
With a quick tug, he pulls the purse from my grasp. “Good thing you’re the type of woman for the job, eh?”
Damn you, heart, stop pounding like that. Swallowing past my nerves, I ask, “What kind of woman is that?”
His teeth flash white with a grin. “A badass. Now, do you want breakfast or not?”
He thinks I’m a badass.
I shouldn’t find that as thrilling as I do. I’m supposed to hate him. Really hate him. But our quick banter reminds me of our friendship back in Detroit, and as much as I should tell him to drive straight to Manhattan, I find myself weakening. Just a little. Maybe.
Then again, breakfast means making pleasant conversation with him, something that neither of us has done exceptionally well with each other since reuniting in Mr. Collins’s office. Since then, my days have been spent doing damage control by calling the publications that Andre has ignored like the plague for the last few months. Some places, like Sports Illustrated, were amenable to opening the doors again. Some places, like GQ, hung up on me after I mentioned Andre’s name.
With twenty-one days left, I’m quickly realizing that the damage Andre has done to his reputation might not be fixed within the course of a month. Not without a whole lot of groveling and heartfelt apologies.
Since neither groveling nor heartfelt apologies are his thing, we’re left with one option: Fame.
Hopefully, today’s gig will help on that front. What am I saying? We need it to help in every way that matters. Breakfast will probably do us some good—we can talk business, stuff like that. Only business.
The sound of the trunk slamming breaks me from my thoughts. “You good with that?” Andre asks.
“Am I good with what?”
“IHOP.”
I haven’t been to an IHOP in years. “Is there one close by?”
He claps his hand over the driver’s door, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know he’s giving me an are-you-serious expression. “Right up the road. We can grab some pancakes and some of those home fries you like so much, and then hit the highway.”
At that opportune moment, my stomach lets loose an unmistakable growl, and I swear; even though I can’t see him, I practically hear him grin in victory.
“Get in the car, Zoe,” he murmurs. “You know you want to.”
I get in the car.
Within twenty minutes, we’re seated at a booth in the back of the restaurant, which I suppose doesn’t really matter, because we are one of only two parties. The group at the other table is definitely wasted. They howl as they eat, utensils flaring through the air, laughter cracking out like a hyena’s bark.
Andre and I, on the other hand, seem to have lost whatever mojo we had outside of my house and sit across from each other in near silence.
It’s not as uncomfortable as it sounds . . .
Just kidding—the silence is brutal. On a scale of one to ten, our current communication problems are at least a five hundred.
Which is so not how it used to be.
Does he remember the amount of times we hit up restaurants throughout Detroit? Except that, then, conversation flowed like finely poured wine. If anything, we used to have too much to say, so much so that there were a handful of times when restaurant staff had to kick us out because it was closing time.
The night hardly ever ended at the establishment’s front doors. We continued the conversation by one of our cars—usually mine—so that he could make sure I got in safely before I headed home.
My fingers flatten out a thin, white napkin.
Andre plays with the handle of his chipped mug.
God, what a miserable pair we make.
I open my mouth to speak, and funnily enough, he does the same, so that our words tumble over each other.
I wave to him. “Go ahead. You first.”
Shaking his head, Andre readjusts his ball cap. “Ladies first.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a sly remark, but I hold it back, swallowing it down and shoving it deep where it won’t threaten to reemerge again. I fold the napkin in half and then in fourths. “I spoke with Sports Illustrated yesterday,” I say slowly, even as I wonder if I should hold off on business until after his first cup of coffee. “They’re interested in rescheduling a feature piece sometime in the next two weeks.”
His mouth quirks, but it isn’t a humorous smile. If anything, it looks a little worn, a little frayed. “Somehow managed to swing it within your trial period?”
My cheeks heat at his words, and I return to my napkin, folding it and folding it and folding it, until it’s a triangular-shaped football. “I may have told them that it was urgent.”
His laugh is short, though not necessarily unkind.
I try again. “They agreed to it, by the way.” I shove the napkin to the interior part of the table, against the arrangement of plastic maple syrup bottles. “Why did you flake out on them in the first place?”
Just then, a server approaches our table to take our order. While Andre goes overboard with coffee, OJ, a stack of blueberry pancakes, and two orders of bacon, I opt for a bowl of oatmeal and a single pancake. Tea, not coffee.
Andre snorts as the waiter takes our order back to the kitchen, and it’s so sarcastic, that I clap my palms on the table and demand, “What?”
“Oatmeal?” He reaches for a syrup bottle and drags it close. “Zoe, we both know that you can out-eat me, if you wanted.”
It’s true, and we both know it. But my stomach is a bundle of nerves, thanks to him, and I don’t think I could handle more than what I ordered. “Maybe I don’t want to,” I tell him stiffly, unwilling to admit the truth.
And the truth is a muddled space between want and dislike.
I don’t like him, not anymore, but my body can’t help but notice his. Notice the way his hair is perfectly disheveled, and the way he’s taken a razor to his face and erased the permanent five o’ clock shadow he’s always got going on. His jaw is sharp, masculine, and I feel the most irrational urge to slide my palm over his face, just to feel the smooth skin.
Yep, I’m officially off my rocker.
The server brings us our drinks, saving both of us the trouble of making more awkward, stilted conversation.
Not that the reprieve lasts long.
Andre downs half of his coffee, then clasps his hands around the mug. His gaze is still hidden by the shadow of his hat, but from the firm set of his mouth, I know he’s staring me down. I can sense the weight of it. “So, Sports Illustrated said yes. Who said no?”
I fidget uncomfortably on my side of the booth. “Well . . . ”
“Zoe, don’t bullshit me.”
I heave a big sigh. “Pretty much everyone.”
“Everyone?” One hand leaves his coffee mug to remove his hat. Without asking if it’s okay, he rests it atop my purse, which I had placed on the table. Then, he turns back to me, his brow lifted in disbelief. “‘Everyone’ is a pretty broad claim. What about USA Hockey?”
I shake my head. “Said no.”
He lifts his coffee mug to his mouth and blows the steam away, as though buying himself time. Over the rim, he asks, “Breakout?”
“No.”
His thumb slips down the handle, caressing the white porcelain. It’s hard not to imagine that thumb skimming down the ridges of my spine. I slam the brake on those thoughts, and mentally shove them into a metal box with a Never Open Again label.
“Okay, so non-hockey magazines.” He lowers the mug to the table a little too forcefully, and the tea in my cup sloshes over the rim. I steal back my football-shaped napkin, unraveling it so that I can wipe up the mess. “Time Magazine reached out a few months ago.”
“I already called. I spoke to two editors, but after being stood up by you, and then the way you’ve treated some of their reporters in the past . . . they aren’t interested.”
“Fuck.”
He says it with no prelude, but I can sens
e his shock. A year ago, I may have even slid onto his side of the booth to put an arm round his shoulder in comfort. In this moment, however, I still myself by holding onto the edges of the booth. Lowering my voice, I ask, “What happened this last year, Andre?”
Once again, the IHOP gods save Andre from having to confess. Our server chooses that exact moment to swing by our table with our feast. Or, Andre’s feast, and my small portion.
At the sight of his plate of bacon, I regret my life decisions and shove a spoon into my soupy oatmeal.
He must catch my bacon-ogling, though, because he holds up a crispy piece. “If I give you this, I’ll answer your question and then you have to promise not to pry anymore.”
My gaze lands on the bacon, and I swear I begin to salivate. “Is this another condition?” I ask, swirling my spoon around in the oatmeal bowl. “Like when you told me last week that we won’t be having sex again?”
As if on cue, the bacon gives up on being stiff, and cracks down the middle to dangle limply in the air.
A laugh breaks free from my chest, just before I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh, God,” I whisper from behind my splayed fingers, “it’s a sign.”
Dark eyes narrow on me, even as Andre drops the bacon on his plate like he’s embarrassed to be holding a wilted slice. “A sign of what?”
“Our lives.”
Uncontrollable laughter takes hold of my body, because, holy cow, it’s so incredibly accurate. Like the piece of bacon, both Andre and I have been broken this last year. I mean, if you really want to look at it, we’re both still trying to pick up the pieces of our ill-timed shagging at the Red Wings’ facility.
There’s a beat of breath before Andre, no doubt sensing the irony, gives in. His shoulders don’t bounce the same way that mine do, but the corners of his eyes crease, and his mouth ticks up from its permanent frown.
When he’s smiling, his features move from broodingly attractive to downright sexy.
Before I can halt the words, I blurt out, “You should smile more. It looks good on you.”
His laughter slowly edges into silence. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear him, he says, “Maybe I don’t feel like smiling. You thought of that, Zoe?”
And just like that, we’ve come back full circle. “Tell me what you were going to say. Before the server came around with our food.”
I watch him dig into his blueberry pancakes, and I take the not-so-subtle hint. Okay, so, his year is off-limits. I can get behind that, though it does feel a little unfair that he should dangle questions in front of me and then snatch them away. Then again, we aren’t exactly friends any longer, so I probably shouldn’t feel slighted.
Fun fact: I totally do, though.
So, it comes as a surprise when two pieces of bacon land on my plate. Neither piece is the broken, half-dangly one.
My gaze cuts to his face. “Thank you?”
“This is going to be my last season.”
That’s all he says. That’s it. And yet I feel the weight of his depression migrate onto my shoulders. I stare at him openly, trying my best to make the words mean something in my head. “What do you mean, this is going to be your last season?”
With a sigh, he pushes his plate away and folds his arms over his chest. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t pry.”
“No, you told me that I shouldn’t pry, but that was before you dropped that bomb on me.” I snag one of the bacon slices he’s given me, and pop it into my mouth. Chewing, thinking, I decide I need more time and opt to eat the second slice now instead of saving it. “Why will this be your last season?”
“Zoe, no prying.”
“Does this have to do with the sex thing?” I ask, because there’s no way I can’t at this point. He’s made such a big stink out of it that it can only mean one thing . . . “Did you pick up a life-altering STD or something?”
The ridiculous comment pulls a laugh from him. “I don’t have herpes.”
“I’d hope not,” I say primly.
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.”
“It would sort of matter,” I tell him, waving my hand back-and-forth in a so-so motion. “I have to say, this doesn’t make your actions any better. You’ve still been a dick.”
“I’ve always been a dick.”
“Well, this last year you’ve really upped the ante.”
“I try my best.”
He says it with such a blasé tone that I roll my eyes. “Maybe you should try your worst?”
He mimics me and rolls his eyes too. “I’ve been at my worst, Zoe, and I can tell you that this me isn’t nearly as bad.”
I want to press him for more, but the expression on his face stops me. Sometimes it’s best to find a speck of patience—not that I have any.
Chapter Nine
ANDRE
She’s planning something.
For the last hour and a half since we hit the road, Zoe has been fidgeting restlessly in the passenger’s seat. Which, in turn, makes me feel restless.
Although, in full honesty, I’ve been feeling that way for seven days now. Having Zoe back in my life is both a blessing and a curse. I missed her spitfire attitude, and, if our last few interactions have shown anything, I still get my rocks off on driving her up a wall just so I can see the heat darken her brown eyes and warm her cheeks with color.
Maybe that makes me an asshole, but damn it, it’s fun to tease her.
But that’s also the problem—when I’m knee-deep in our banter, I forget that I’m supposed to be making her want nothing to do with me. That’s the goal, that’s the mission, and I’m pretty sure that I’m failing seventy-percent of the time.
I cast my eyes over her slim body. She’s decked out in comfortable attire, and, for once, isn’t wearing stilettos. She looks exactly like the Zoe I remember from our movie nights, when she rested her feet in my lap and cradled a massive popcorn bowl against her stomach. And that Zoe is dangerous.
Who am I kidding? Zoe Mackenzie is dangerous to me in every way that matters.
The sound of her nails tapping against her cell phone leads me off the edge. “Do you need to piss?”
Out of my periphery, I see her shoulders jerk. “What? No.”
Don’t look at her, man. “Do you have to change your pad or something?”
“Oh, my God, Andre. Why would you even ask that?”
This time, I do cut a glance in her direction. Her pink lips are parted in shock, and, fuck me, but I want to kiss them. Of course I do—because when have I ever found Zoe unattractive? The answer to that is never; everything about her shines like a beacon only I can see. The thought of pounding my forehead into the steering wheel sounds like a blast right about now. “Because,” I mutter, unclenching my jaw, “you keep moving around. My sister does the same thing when she’s on her . . . thing.”
“Thing, Andre?” Her laughter echoes in my car, the sound so fucking sweet it almost hurts. “How old are you?”
I palm the steering wheel, following the curvy Connecticut highway. “Old enough.”
“Then say it with me now,” she says, poking me in the arm with her perfectly manicured finger. “Period. One more time, slower now so you can really work on it . . . perriooddd.”
Is it wrong that I simultaneously want to toss her into the backseat and kiss her silent, as much as I want to keep egging her on? I go with the latter, because, fuck it, the kissing thing is strictly off-limits.
Because you made it off-limits, like an idiot.
I reach for the car’s radio, only for Zoe to swat at my hand at the last second.
“Jesus, Zo!”
At the sound of my displeasure, she leans back in the passenger’s seat smugly. Instinctively my hand leaves the steering wheel, heading for ground zero.
“Don’t touch the radio, Beaumont.”
I jerk my chin toward her. “Are you kidding me? This is my car.”
“Well, yes, but we could have taken my car, but you wanted to be all high-
and-mighty and—”
“You drive like shit,” I mutter with a shake of my head.
“Hey! That’s not true.”
Hell yes, it is. I bite down on my lower lip, debating on whether I should just go for broke. What’s that saying again? If you can’t handle the heat then stay out of the kitchen? Something like that. If Zoe wants to join the trash-talk train, then she needs to kick it with the best of us. “Let me rephrase that,” I tell her. “You drive worse than every senior citizen in the state of Massachusetts combined.”
I sense her watching me. Her nails tap the cell phone impatiently. Then, “I think you’re just jealous.”
A burst of laughter escapes me. “Of your driving skills? Nah, honey. You must have me confused with somebody else.”
“Who in the world would I have you confused with? No one else has ever accused me of driving poorly.” She trails off with a little gasp, and, damn it, but the sound has me looking at her again. The gasp is sexy, the way her eyes narrow is sexy, the way she thrusts her finger at me in an air-jab is sexy. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you,” she adds, “because of the time I backed your car into a fire hydrant.”
Fingers flexing over the steering wheel, I grunt, “No.”
She doesn’t look away, and I shift uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. Flick the air vents toward me, then fiddle with my ball cap. I’m not mad per se . . . but, Jesus, it’d been a nice car. Then again, seeing her shocked expression when she’d realized what she’d done had immediately soaked up the anger. Zoe had looked so damn cute, with her mouth pursed in an O and her brows nearly touching her hairline as she sputtered inarticulately.
Not that I’d ever offer for her to pull a repeat, but the price tag for fixing the damn thing had been well worth having her fawn all over me for weeks.
“You are,” she whispers now. “You’re totally still mad. It’s been almost two years!”
“Zoe, I’m not mad.”
I tug on my left earlobe, and she points at me. “You are! You’re doing the earlobe-y thing.”
“‘Earlobe-y’ is not a word,” I say, struggling to keep my gaze locked on the road when all I want to do is look at her. Damn it, but I’ve missed this between us. The banter, the laughter, the reminder that one glance at Zoe is enough to make my day feel complete.
