Page 27 of Blue Line

“I’ve done some weddings and family photographs. Regularly, if I’m being honest. But they’re not what I want to do. They’re …” She trails off as if trying to come up with the right word. “Boring. I mean, they paid the bills, but that’s it. I quit the studio I was working at right before Holt found out he was a dad. Timing on that one worked out perfectly.” She huffs, her shoulders slumping. “I know what I want to do, but it’s not an easy field to break into. I’ve applied for a few jobs around Ontario for athletic events, but either never heard anything or got rejected. I’ve even applied to a few venues that were advertising for photographers for concerts and festivals, and nothing.”

“That’s tough,” I say after a few seconds.

“I don’t want to do weddings and family portraits my whole career. I thought about selling photographs through stock image sites, but there’s only so much of it I can do. Plus, the pay isn’t great. I haven’t figured out what my calling is, I guess. Maybe I never will. Especially because every time I’ve picked up my camera lately, the photographs haven’t come out right.” She frowns, staring down at her plate.

With a resigned sigh, she picks up her taco and resumes eating, as if she didn’t just tell me she might never figure out what she wants to do with her life.

“They look fine, technically speaking, but they’re not right,” she adds.

How did I not know all this before?

I think back to our conversations over the years and internally cringe at myself when I realize most of them were either about hockey, about Hazel or Holt, or us giving each other shit. I make a mental note to do better when it comes to Hadley. To get to know her better. Especially now that we’re in this fake engagement.

My mind whirls at how I can help her. Madison owns a custom cake shop; maybe she has connections with an event organizer who needs a new photographer. I can ask Aubrey if she knows of anything. There’s got to be someone I know who can connect her with someone else who could help her land a job.

“Well, I think I’m going to unpack, shower, and get ready for bed,” Hadley says, balling up her taco wrappers a few minutes later.

“I’m not far behind you. There are towels in the linen closet, and the sheets on the bed are fresh. My housekeeper put them on when she cleaned yesterday.”

“Thanks, Weston. Night.”

“Night,” I tell her, watching her walk down the hall toward the bedroom.

I spend the next few minutes pottering around the kitchen, washing up our cups and wiping down the table before heading to my room to get ready for bed, trying not to think about the fact that Hadley Jane Abbott is literally steps away from me in the shower. Naked. The girl of my fucking dreams is in my apartment naked. Knock it off, Weston.

She’s not yours.

Not really.

Even though I really want her to be.

Chapter eleven

Hadley

The sun is streaming into my window when I wake up the next morning. I sit up and stretch, glancing at the clock on the nightstand to see that it’s a little after ten. Guess I was tired after all the travel. I feel bad that it’s already so late. Weston promised to take me to pick up the G-Wagon, and here I am, sleeping in. He probably wants to go skate and work out, not wait around for me to get up.

I throw back the covers and get out of bed, then head to the bathroom and hurry through my morning routine. Once that’s done, I go into the kitchen in need of caffeine. My steps falter as I take in Weston, peeking into the fridge, his back to me, clad only in a pair of navy-blue boxers.

Fuck, that man is built. His back is covered in muscles and tattoos.

Shit.

I should not be ogling my fake fiancé.

My roommate.

My brother’s best friend.

As quietly as I can, I start to back out of the kitchen, but as I’m about to turn around and hightail it to my bedroom, I misjudge where I’m going. I slam my elbow into the corner of the entranceway, throwing me off balance, and I topple to the ground. Never said I was graceful.

“Shit,” I hiss, rubbing my elbow.

That will definitely leave a mark. Probably a bruise. I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping he didn’t hear me. Maybe he’s got headphones in.

“What the—”

Nope, not my lucky day.