Page 144 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“They want you. Four more years. I know you’ve been sitting with this for a while, so I wanted to call the second it was official.” He pauses. “You good?”
“I’m good.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Thanks, Rick.”
He pauses. “You sound calm.”
“I am calm.”
“You’re never calm about contract stuff.”
“Things are different now,” I tell him, and I’m looking at Winnie when I say it, and she raises her eyebrows at me likewhat?and I shake my head likenothing, later.
Rick says he’ll call Monday and hangs up, and I put my phone in the cupholder and turn the music back up.
“Well?” she asks.
“Four more years with the Knights. They signed me.”
She grabs my arm with both hands, her whole face breaking open. “Banks.”
“It’s done.”
“That’s—oh my God, that’s—” She makes a happy sound and leans over and presses her lips to my cheek, and I feel her laugh against my jaw, giddy and warm. “I told you. I told you it would work out.”
“You did.”
“You should listen to me literally always.”
“Yeah.” I turn my hand over, find hers, and hold it. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
She stays tucked against my shoulder for another minute, still smiling, and I drive the rest of the way to the house with her hand in mine.
Winnie starts singing again, picking up right where she left off, like staying is just a given, like of course it worked out, like she never doubted it for a second.
She probably didn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Housewarming
Winnie
The house still smells like fresh paint, but otherwise it’s perfect—tall windows that fill every room with light, an open floor plan, and refinished hardwood floors.
Banks can’t seem to relax. He’s adjusting the food spread, checking the thermostat, straightening the throw blanket on the sectional that was already straight. I’ve been watching him from the kitchen doorway with a glass of wine and zero intention of stopping him because honestly this—Banks Callahan nervous about a housewarming party, fussing over a cheese board—is kind of cute—domestic in a way I never expected of him.
“Banks.” I catch his arm on his way back through the kitchen. I give him a look and hold out a piece of cheese. He takes it, chews, and does one more visual sweep of the room before his shoulders drop about half an inch. “It looks good,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” He looks around at the walls we had painted, the sectional we picked together, the photos we hung last Tuesday. “Yeah, it does.”
Logan arrives first because of course he does, holding a gift bag and wearing the expression of a man who has been sitting on a secret for seventy-two hours and is about to explode from the effort of containing it.
The gift is a custom doormat that saysBANKS + WINNIEin clean block letters.
Banks picks it up and just looks at it, turning it over in his hands, and I watch his throat move. “Thanks, man.”
“Photo of it installed later. I need the closure.” Logan squeezes his shoulder and makes a beeline for the food, and Banks is still holding the doormat, still looking at it, so I go to him and put my hand on his back, and he sets it down carefully and covers my hand with his without looking away from it.
I don’t say anything. He doesn’t need me to.
