Whoa, no. Hell, no. Giving a cute girl a ride was one thing. Discussing a relationship was another. Plus, Emile had about twenty minutes before he needed to head to the practice rink. It was only two blocks away, but he liked to be early. First, if possible.
He stood. “Is there somewhere I can take you? Your family? Are they in town?”
She shook her head. “They live in south Georgia.” Emile was a little sketchy on American geography, but he was confident he didn’t have time to make it to Georgia—south or not—in twenty minutes.
“Then a friend or a workmate?”
“I don’t work. I sold my business a while back, and I can’t work in my field for four more years.” Then a look of surprise came over her face. “I guess I haven’t really made any friends since I moved here.” She said it like that had just occurred to her. “There’s my hairdresser. And I sometimes talk to those nice girls at Foolscap and Vellum where I buy my bullet journals and wrapping paper, but I don’t really know them.” That was sad. Emile had at least ten places he could go if he needed somewhere to stay. Five of those wouldn’t even ask questions. Apparently, Amy had not even one.
Well, she wasn’t his problem. Even if she wasn’t crazy, there was nothing he could do. Let Adam Fairly deal with her. What had he said? “We take care of our residents from first day to last—if there must be a last.” Amy might not have signed any papers. Maybe she never paid any money—though he doubted that. But she’d been a resident. He might not have finished college, but he knew the definition of resident. To reside. She had definitely resided.
Now, how to get out of the room without looking like a dick? Was there a way?
She looked at her pocketbook, then picked it up and hugged it to her chest like it was her only possession. And it probably was.
Adam tossed him a frantic look, and Emile had his answer—there was no way to leave this room without looking like a dick, without being a dick.
He rose, took her arm, and urged her to her feet. “Come along, chérie. I will take you to my home.” Because what else, short of a homeless shelter? He didn’t know where to find one of those. Probably, Adam didn’t either. It wasn’t likely that had ever come up as one of the things that residents of Star View Towers needed, unless it was on a scavenger hunt list for one of those home association activities they did every few months.
“I can’t let you do that,” Amy said.
“Then what?” Emile asked. It was a valid question.
“Come along.” He pulled her toward the door, and she let him. “I must go to practice. You will be alone to rest and think. You’ve had a shock.”
How, how, how had this happened? He had no clue, but it had happened. He was in deep. This bastard Cameron Snow was in the wind.
But for now, he needed some ice under his feet.
Chapter Six
It was easy to let Emile’s décor distract Amy from the day’s events. She didn’t want to think about it yet.
Emile had let her in, quickly mixed a protein shake, and left again for hockey practice, drinking it as he went out the door. He’d said something about how she should make herself at maison. She didn’t speak French, but she got the drift—home, though the French word sounded more like mansion than home. It would be a stretch to call Emile’s condo a mansion, but it was a lot closer to one than hers and Cameron’s—not that they had a condo anymore. Of course, she never had, not really. She’d just been squatting.
Amy beat the thought back. Obviously, she was going to have to think about it soon and for a very long time. Now that she knew Cameron wasn’t hurt, dead, or kidnapped, she just needed a little grace period before letting her head tell her heart that he had left her because he didn’t love her.
At that very thought, she wanted to slap herself. Why the hell was she thinking about lost love when he had not only taken everything she owned, but he’d also planned it in the most devious way? The bastard had made love to her just this morning knowing full well he was going to dump her in Beauford and hurry back to Nashville in time for the new owners to pick up her car. Still, she didn’t want to think about it. Not now. So she walked from room to room, making herself at maison—not to the extent that she opened drawers or closets, but if a door wasn’t locked, she figured what was on open display was fair game for looking.
The furnishings were surprising. If she had thought about it at all, Amy would have figured Emile would favor a modern, sleek, neutral design—not unlike Cameron’s taste. Cameron might have liked Emile’s brown leather sectional couch, but he would never have tolerated the rest of it—antique world globes, giant wall clocks with Roman numerals, pictures hanging from chains, pendulum lights with bubble glass, lamps with swing-out arms, and bookcases filled with baskets and branches in vases. There wasn’t a single inch that wasn’t covered with something.
Amy didn’t dislike it exactly. It was certainly cozier than her former home, but it all seemed so, so . . . canned. It was like she’d seen it all before.
It was when she wandered into a guest bathroom with its raw pine, marble-topped vanity and ladder-like shelving unit with rolled up towels in wire baskets that it hit her.
Pottery Barn. He had bought whole catalog pages from Pottery Barn.
She began to laugh, though she wasn’t sure why. Certainly today was not a day for laughter, but there was just something so endearing about the cast iron airplanes, kaleidoscopes, and brass hourglasses.
Hourglasses. Time. What the hell was she going to do next? A wave of cold went through her, and it wasn’t the kind of cold that turning up the heat would help. Nonetheless, she chose a honey-colored throw from a big basket of similar blankets, sank down on the couch, and covered herself.
She needed to think of logistics. Money would be no problem. At least she had plenty of that—it was just accessing it right now. She needed to go down to the bank. Surely, as soon as she explained the situation in person, they would release her money.
But what to do until then? She poured the contents of her purse on the couch. For now, this was all she had in the world. Makeup bag with a few basics, sunglasses, bullet journal, zipper bag with about thirty pens in various colors, a phone that was no use, wallet with equally useless credit cards, and $84.38.
Where were her things? Her books, hairbrush, photo albums, and winter coat? Gone, along with her panties, English breakfast tea, and the pearl earrings her grandparents had given her for high school graduation. She didn’t even have a change of clothes or a place to sleep tonight.
What kind of hotel room could she get for $84.38? Nothing within walking distance of here, but maybe at some place like a Comfort Inn out by the interstate. Emile would probably drive her there when he got home, but how would she get to the bank tomorrow?
She needed a plan. If it works on paper, it will work in implementation.
She picked up her bullet journal and quickly leafed past the Beauford pages. She couldn’t look at them now, couldn’t stand to remember how hopeful and happy she’d been this morning.
She chose her orange LePen because it was fall and orange was a cheerful color. She turned to a blank page in her journal and pondered what to title it. How to Get My Life Back was the first thing that popped in her head, but she batted it away. Her life wasn’t gone. She just needed to straighten it out. So she wrote How to Fix this Mess. She was considering what rubber stamps and stickers to use to dress up the page, but then she remembered she didn’t have any.
She needed her stuff back. That was something she would put on her list. Cameron had abandoned her. Okay. It was hard to swallow, but that was the least of her worries. He had no use for her things. Except for her car, surely he had just stashed them somewhere. She had to find him and find out where. The car was gone, but she’d consider that a life lesson and forget it. She could get another car as soon as she got access to her money. But that wouldn’t be the first item on her list. Amy ran through her mind what she was going to put on the page so she would get i
t in the right order. She didn’t like to make mistakes in her journal.
• Find a place to stay tonight.
• Go to the bank tomorrow and get new debit and credit cards.
• Get my phone working again or get a new one.
• Buy some toiletries, a suitcase, and a few changes of clothes.
• Check into the Hyatt or the Hilton downtown.
• Get a car.
• Find Cameron and get my things.
• Invite Emile out to dinner to thank him for being so nice, but make sure he knows it’s not a date.
There were other things that needed to go on that list—things like:
• Tell my family what happened.
• Decide where I’m going to live.
• Go there, wherever that is.
• Make Cameron tell me why he did this to me.
But she wasn’t ready to write that down yet. Suddenly, she was very tired. She laid her journal and pen on the table—the one with the rows and rows of little drawers—pulled the throw up to her neck, and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Seven
Though it was unlikely that any of his teammates would have arrived yet, the Music City Ice Center was alive with noise and activity when Emile entered. There was always a lot going on this time of day—youth hockey practices, figure skating lessons, public skates. He paused to look through the door of rink D where the Junior Nashville Sound, the 16-20 year olds, were practicing. Juniors were the first level of elite hockey after youth hockey.
He’d loved his junior years as much as he’d hated his time in youth hockey, because junior hockey meant living away from home with a host family—not that he’d wanted to get away from his mother and sister. He’d just thought it would be better for everyone if he didn’t live with them. After all, he was the one who infuriated Andre. Emile had thought with him gone, his mother and Gabriella would be able to live in peace. He’d been wrong about that. Emile understood now that a man like Andre was always going to have a punching bag—it was a just a matter of who. Turns out, he should have stayed and let it be him.
But he hadn’t, and he’d hit the jackpot when he’d been drafted by the Buxton Ice Demons and Paul and Johanna Lindell had become his billet parents. Not every junior hockey player was so lucky, but the Lindells had provided him with a warm, welcoming home where clean clothes appeared like magic and he had the best food he’d ever had in his life. They treated him like family, but it was only after his son-of-a-bitch stepfather broke Gabriella’s arm and knocked his mother down the stairs that Emile knew he was family. They’d taken Emile back to Canada for his mother’s funeral, and when they found out that eleven-year-old Gabriella had no place to go, they’d gone through a mountain of red tape to bring her back to North Dakota to live with them.
Bad times. Good times. One always followed the other.
He wondered if the kids on the Junior Sound team had happy billet homes. The kid in the net wasn’t bad. He’d stop by their practice one day next week.
When he entered the Sound locker room, he expected it to be empty, like it usually was when he arrived, but today he got a surprise—another one. The head equipment manager was not only there, but he was also fussing with things in Emile’s stall.
“Bonjour, Packi,” Emile said.
The weathered, gray-haired man looked up from hanging Emile’s practice sweater in the oversized goalie stall. He’d played minor league hockey in the days when bloody fights were practically required but helmets were not, and he had the scars to prove it. Weathered and gray, he might be, but no one could accuse Oliver Klepacki of being wizened or weak. He was straight and strong, and Emile imagined a woman of a certain age would have said he was handsome. Maybe a woman of any age.
“Cześć,” Packi said in Polish. Emile had learned his lesson about pointing out that Packi was a native of Milwaukee and had never set foot in Poland. Packi had given it right back to him; he cared not that Emile was a star and a two-time winner of the Vezina Trophy. Anyway, so what Emile if hadn’t been to France—yet? He’d get around to it. On the other hand, Packi said he had no desire to go to Poland. He began to arrange Emile’s pads.
“What are you doing?” Emile asked.
“I’ve decided to take care of you myself for a while. I sharpened your skates. I told Caleb and Marty not to touch them for the time being.”
This stopped Emile in his tracks. Packi supervised two equipment managers and two locker room attendants. He ordered new equipment, made repairs on the bench during games, sharpened skates, and bossed his underlings around. He did not hang sweaters and put players’ stalls in order—except when he did.
Every once in a while, Packi assumed taking care of a player when he needed a little extra care—sometimes when bad things happened, like when Jake Champagne was going through a divorce or when Mike Webber’s mother died. But sometimes it was because of good things. He’d catered to Glaz when Noel was pregnant and to Mikhail Orlov when he, Sharon, and their three children were moving to a different house. Jan Voleck had gotten special care during the time leading up to his wedding to Krystal, the puck bunny who was seven years his senior—though no one could be sure if that was a good thing or bad. Probably bad, though Emile knew from personal experience she was good in bed—or really not so much in bed as up against the wall in the handicapped stall in the women’s toilet at the Big Skate.
Glaz and some of the others swore that Packi had some kind of magical sixth sense, that he just knew when someone needed some extra help, but Emile didn’t believe in that any more than he believed in superstition.
But there wasn’t anything particularly good or bad going on in Emile’s life, so why him and why now?
Packi handed him an insulated container and a fork. “You didn’t have time to eat before coming here today, did you? Though you would have, if you didn’t have to be the first one here. If I was guessing, I’d say you might have had a protein shake.”
“How did you know?” Emile opened the container. It was his usual quinoa and wild rice with chicken on top.
“I know my boys. I know when there’s something going on.” He picked up Emile’s helmet and began to polish it as if it were game day. “When you have this touched up, you should add something for the Stanley Cups.”
Parfait! Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“You are the wisest man I know, Packi.”
Packi looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Because I thought of a new way to embellish your ego? Do you want to talk about what’s going on with you?”
Emile took a bite of the chicken. “There’s nothing going on with me.” He pointed to the food. “But this is good. Merci.”
“Nothing going on? You sure?” He replaced the helmet on the shelf. “I cooked that chicken myself. I didn’t just dump in a can of that stuff like you do.”
“Maybe you should teach me to cook chicken.”
“I could teach you a lot of things.” Packi picked up one of Emile’s skates. “Laces looking a little worn. I thought I’d change them.”
“Good idea. You didn’t tape my sticks did you?”
Packi sat down next to Emile in Swifty’s stall and began to unlace the skates. “You know I never mess with a man’s stick-taping unless he wants me to. You tape your own.”
“Always.” Emile finished his food and began to undress. He liked to stretch in the locker room and then again on the ice before anyone else arrived.
“I’ve heard that ballerinas sew the ribbons on their toe shoes themselves. It’s kind of the same thing.” Packi wove the new laces through the eyelets slowly and deliberately. Emile knew he could do it lightning fast with just as much precision. He’d seen him do it on the bench during games. A Sound player never missed his rotation during a game because of equipment failure.
“Really?” Emile was impressed. He’d been to the ballet. He’d wanted to like it like he wanted to like opera and modern art, but in the end he just didn’t get it. “You kn
ow of ballet?”
“No. But I know of my wife. She likes to go, and I like her. Quite a lot. So, I go. Sometimes.”
Emile had nothing to contribute to a ballet discussion, so he changed the subject.
“Tell me, Packi, what do you know of Cameron Snow?”
Packi looked up, surprised. “Voleck’s agent? Not a lot. I’ve seen him around a few times. I didn’t cotton to him. Too slick. You’re not thinking of changing agents are you?”
“No. Miles suits me, and he has become my friend. In any case, I would not choose Snow. I am not sure of all the details, but I met his girlfriend today—or former girlfriend. It seems he has abandoned her and maybe taken all her money.”
“And she let that happen? Is she stupid?”
“No. She’s very smart.” Emile wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he was certain of it. “It’s a mystery.”
Packi gave out a gruff little laugh. “And you say you have nothing going on with you? Where is this woman right now?”
Chagrined, Emile admitted, “At my home. But it’s temporary. By the time I return from practice, she will have figured out a plan.” Probably she’ll want to go to her family. Maybe one of them was en route, even now, to collect her. Certainly, if that had happened to Gabriella, that’s where he’d be—even if it was the Stanley Cup finals. The Sound would have to make do with Case Cole, Emile’s backup.
“So, she’s good at figuring out plans?”
In truth, Emile didn’t know. But if she wasn’t, he was. He could buy her a ticket and put her on a plane to Georgia. Yes. That’s what he’d do unless she had a better idea.
“Glad to hear there’s nothing going on in your life.” Packi finished lacing the skate and picked up the other one. “I hope she doesn’t steal the silver.”
“I don’t have any silver.” Though he would hate to lose the nice flatware set he’d bought at Pottery Barn. “She wouldn’t take it. She’s not the type.”
“And you know this about her? You’ve known her how long?” Packi put down the second skate, picked up the first one again, and began wiping it down with a cloth.
Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1) Page 5
