by K. A. Tucker
“Not exactly . . .” Call it a severe lapse in good judgment, but my dad decided to leave four-month-old Stella uncrated and in their backyard while he made a quick run to the store with Brenna a few weekends ago.
They came home to uprooted gardens and a mud-covered puppy.
Brenna said she’s never seen Grandma’s face so scary before.
“Oh, well. Some chaos will do that woman good. How are the renovation plans coming along?”
“They’re starting soon.” I can’t hide the excitement from my voice. “Niya came over yesterday to go over all the final designs with us.” With me, really. The thirty-two-year-old designer from New York and I have been trading emails and ideas back and forth, to bring my sketchbook to life. And then she goes to Brett to discuss the costs, because they both know I’ll say no to everything if I see the price tag. But I’m done arguing with him about spending money because I know he’s going to spend it either way. “The permits should be approved next week.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
“They said four months so I’m guessing eight? Double whatever they say, right?” We’re lucky that we can close ourselves off completely in our apartment, but we won’t be able to avoid the dust and noise completely.
“And that other little side project that she asked you to do?”
“I should be done it next week.” Niya’s been hired to remodel a house in the Hamptons. She said she’s swamped and asked if I’d like to throw together a preliminary design idea for the master bedroom. She’s paying me, but I can’t help but feel like it’s also a test.
“That’s something you think you could do? You know, aside from the whole inn thing.”
“Yeah. I think so. I mean, I don’t know what kind of schooling I’d need but . . . yeah, I could make it work.” Funny, I never thought that a loose-leaf real estate flyer on my doorstep would eventually lead me here.
“You should look into that, then.”
My phone chirps with a text from Brett.
Lou’s eyes dart to my pocket. “You have to go?”
“He’s probably outside, waiting. And I still have to change.” I’m not about to show up at the ice rink in my diner’s dress. I watch her expectantly, wondering why she called me in, besides just catching up.
“I heard there’s a warrant out for Scott Philips’s arrest in Memphis.”
“Oh?” That catches me off guard. I’ve managed not to run into him again, though we’ve seen his face on real estate signs plenty. And every time we do, Brenna points out “my art teacher.”
“Seems a sixteen-year-old student has come forward with a damning statement.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Well, this time they have several witnesses, too. And it doesn’t sound like the girl or her family wants to back down. This one might stick.”
I shake my head at his brazenness. “Let’s hope so.” Aside from a single conversation the week after Brenna’s birthday, the topic of Scott Philips being Brenna’s father has not come up, oddly enough. Even my mother has stayed quiet. Possibly for fear of this exact situation. She doesn’t want her granddaughter associated with a man who chases teenage girls.
“Okay, I should get—”
“Wait.” Lou purses her lips.
She’s been beating around the bush, I realize. That’s really not like Lou. Unease stirs inside me.
“So, here’s the thing. You’ve got all this stuff goin’ on in your life now—renos and this designer stuff, maybe school on the horizon; you’ve got Brenna to care for and that wild dog of hers. And don’t forget that man, who’s going to have to be in Philadelphia a lot more going forward, especially if today works out for him . . .”
My stomach tightens at the idea that my days of curling up next to Brett every night are over. It’s been almost five months since the accident. His walking cast is finally off, he’s been working with a physical therapist to strengthen his leg, which, though healed, is not the same.
But the doctors have given him the green light to put on skates again. Sid Durrand, Coach Roth, and everyone else on the Flyers team are frothing at the mouth to see what will come of it.
“So, I’m gonna give you two options, Cath: Either you quit or I fire you.”
I simply stare at her, looking for her stern face to crack into a smile. It doesn’t.
She eases out of her chair to round the desk, smoothing out the front of her uniform. “Listen here, I love you like I love my own child. More, actually, than my own child, though that’s not too hard.” Her eyes flare with meaning. “And I know that this is not the life I want for you, sluggin’ plates of food and pourin’ coffees for strangers. You have all these wonderful things happenin’ for you now and you don’t need this place anymore.”
“But I need a job for—”
“Don’t you dare bring up money to me, Catherine. You will be just fine. Let him take care of you while you focus on you.”
As if Brett has given me any choice, as much as I fight it. He won’t let me pay a single bill, including the rent on my little clapboard cottage, though I’ve finally agreed to give my notice to vacate. And last month, I found a bank and credit card tied to his accounts in my wallet. I haven’t used them, much to his frustration.
“I’ll give you three days to decide how you want it to go, but either way”—Lou blinks away the sudden glossiness from her eyes—“Leroy and me don’t wanna see you in here with this uniform on after that, and that’s final.”
My phone chirps again.
“Get goin’. He’s waiting for you.” Lou practically pushes me out of her office. I’m in a daze as I change out of my uniform, spending a few minutes freshening my makeup. By the time my phone chirps a third time, I’m rushing to the front.
Brett’s standing by the counter in track pants and one of those clingy long-sleeve shirts that show off an upper body he’s been training heavily over the last month. He’s chuckling with a couple of the regulars who are talking his ear off, wishing him luck with his first skate today. Even though people have started getting used to having him in here by now, I can still see the excitement in their eyes.
Much like the excitement in mine, I guess, because Brett still steals my breath at first sight.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up.” I’ll have to tell him about that bombshell later. If he doesn’t already know, that is.
He leans down to kiss me and I automatically inhale the scent of him—a mixture of soap and cologne.
“This is for you.” I thrust the container of pancakes and bacon into his hands.
He checks the window for Leroy and, seeing his grinning face, throws a wave and a “Thanks.” “Okay, we’ve gotta go.”
I trail after him, enjoying the sight of his strong back and his long strides. He still seems to favor his left leg a touch, but the doctor thinks that’ll work itself out. “Nervous?”
“Nope.”
I smile. “Liar.”
“What, you don’t think I’m strong enough?”
“Of course I think you’re strong enough.” I’ve noticed how much muscle he’s put back on, just over the past month. “I just—Ah!” Suddenly I find myself scooped into one of Brett’s arms and being carried across the parking lot toward the black Suburban he bought—off, of all people, Gord Mayberry. “Put me down!” I shriek, though I can’t help but laugh.
But he merely adjusts so he’s cradling me in both arms. “Don’t knock the container out of my hand,” he warns sternly. “I love Leroy’s pancakes.”
A phone is aimed at us from a booth in the diner. “Oh, my God. People are taking pictures now.”
“Better smile and pretend you love me, then.”
“I do lo—” I cut myself off right before I say it, feeling my cheeks burn. We have yet to say those words to each other, though they’re on the tip of my tongue every day from morning until night. Brett seems to have made a game of it, wanting me to say it before he does.
“Why are you so insane today?”
He releases me to the ground. “Maybe I’m a bit nervous.”
“A bit?”
“Okay. More nervous than I was playing my first NHL game.” His jaw tenses. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Of course I’m going to be there for you.” I smooth my hand over his jaw. I love the feel of his skin when it’s so freshly shaven. “You’ve got this.”
He leans forward to press his forehead against mine. “But what if I don’t?”
“Then . . .” I sigh. “You’ve got me. I know it’s not the same, but you’ve got me either way.”
“No, you’re right. It’s not the same.” He folds me into his arms, and I revel in the feel of his body—warm and powerful, and alive. And all mine. “It’s better.”
EPILOGUE
“Hey! We’re on the TV!”
I look over at the flat-screen in time to see Brenna waving her arms wildly back and forth at the cameras, my parents, Emma, and Jack sitting on either side of her in the front row of the luxury suite seats.
“She’s certainly not shy, is she?” Meryl says with a soft chuckle.
“No, she’s not.” Unlike Emma, who’s pretending to search for something in her purse, trying to avoid the attention.
“We might have another actress in the family,” Michelle adds, winking at her mother. Brett’s sister is a younger replica of Meryl, right down to the same shade of silky blonde hair and exact height. And she’s just as nice. I got to know her pretty well over the Christmas holidays, when we flew out to Malibu.
“God help us all, if that’s the case,” Richard says around a sip of his beer, though he’s grinning. “How’s the house coming?”
“It’s . . . coming.” I chuckle. “It’s chaotic right now. We’re in Philly most weekends.” To spend time with Brett as much as avoid the dust. He can’t come back to Balsam every night, the drive too much given his hectic training schedule and the snow. And now that he’ll be traveling with the team again . . .
“They’re about to go on!” Jack hollers.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves as I make my way down. Wishing I could talk to Brett right now. But he’s somewhere below, in the bowels of this giant arena with his team, getting ready to play his first game, eight months after the car accident that nearly killed him. He’s done well, his ankle standing up to the test of daily practices and intensive strength training. He’s ready.
But he was also pacing around the condo for hours last night. The crowd comes to life as lights in the arena begin flashing and changing colors, and the announcer’s deep voice blasts through the speakers.
“I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t been to one of his games in almost two years,” Meryl says, throwing a smile and wave at the camera that’s once again trained on our suite. Brett prepared me to expect that a lot tonight.
“It’s not exactly easy for you, is it?” I glance over my shoulder at the security detail—there’s one giant man by the door and another one standing just outside the suite entrance. Meryl will leave through a restricted exit at the end of the night.
“Still . . . I think the accident was a good reminder to take advantage of what’s in front of us today, because it might not be there tomorrow, right?” She takes a deep breath. “But now that we’re back on the East Coast again, I’m going to be here more. Assuming things go well tonight.”
“They will.”
She ropes her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me tight against her once, before letting me go.
“Here he comes!” Michelle squeals.
The announcer is talking, but whether it’s the noise from the crowd or the way his voice reverberates, I’m struggling to understand him.
Until he calls out, “Number Eighteen, Brett Madden!”
My heart soars as I watch Brett skate out, as the arena vibrates with the welcoming roar of the crowd. The energy doesn’t die down either, only growing as two lines of players form, one of the Flyers and the other the Bruins.
We stand for the national anthem.
And then the players square off at center ice.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mumble to no one in particular.
My dad chuckles. “We’ll make a hockey fan out of you yet.”
“Whoa, we don’t want her using those season tickets, remember,” Jack mock-whispers.
“Oh, you’re right.” Dad’s face grows stern. “Good call, son.”
I ignore them, turning my focus to Brett at center. And I pray, to whoever was listening the night I pulled Brett out of that car, that they’re watching over him tonight, too.
The puck drops and I take a deep breath.
Thirty-two seconds later, Brett scores his first goal.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I needed to write this story. It’s very different from the ones I’ve written recently. It’s light (for me), it could be called trope-y (by others), it’s full of love and family and laughter, and it has left me with a broad smile and a sigh of content. I hope you have enjoyed experiencing Catherine Wright’s adventure.
To my readers, thank you for giving me a chance. Many of you continue along with me on this journey, whether it be with a lighthearted romance or a nail-biting suspense story, trusting me enough to allow me a few precious hours of your life.
A special thanks to Jennifer Wiers Severino, for allowing me to pick your brain over legal stuff so I could sort out my plot and simplify things. I always complicate things for myself. Having you as a sounding board for this was an enormous help.
To Amelié, Sarah, and Tami, the very best readers and Facebook group admins a person could ask for. Thank you for always being excited to read my latest books.
To Stacey Donaghy of Donaghy Literary Group, for our shared love of coffee, crispy bacon, and laughter. We joke about how I give you the first half of my books and then let you hang for several weeks, waiting for the rest. You’re right, it is a special form of torture. I’m glad it’s you and not me experiencing it.
To KP Simmon of Inkslinger PR, for always being so willing to brainstorm ideas and chase after opportunities, no matter what time of day or night.
To Sarah Cantin, you are a cornerstone of my writing career. What I have learned from you is invaluable. Thank you for your willingness to edit a swoony story and your patience when I decided that something just wasn’t right (at the eleventh hour).
To Judith Curr and the team at Atria Books: Suzanne Donahue, Ariele Fredman, Tory Lowy, Kimberly Goldstein, Alysha Bullock, Cynthia Merman, and Albert Tang. Eleven beautifully packaged books, yo! (I keep losing count.)
To my girls, who make creating adorable, lovable, sweet, smart, funny kids a breeze, just by being themselves. You two continue to give me so much inspiration.
To my husband, for taking care of our adorable, lovable, sweet, smart, funny kids, even when they’re not so adorable, lovable, or sweet, so I can toil away in my cave.
And, finally, to my fellow Toronto Maple Leaf fans, as if I wasn’t going to let them take home the cup.
Also by K.A. Tucker
Ten Tiny Breaths
One Tiny Lie
Four Seconds to Lose
Five Ways to Fall
In Her Wake
Burying Water
Becoming Rain
Chasing River
Surviving Ice
He Will Be My Ruin
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Kathleen Tucker
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First Atria Paperback edition May 2017
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Manufactured in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
ISBN 978-1-5011-3338-1
ISBN 978-1-5011-3339-8 (ebook)
