Page 21 of The Big Puck

“Rafe Lemaire still has impressive speed. I’m surprised.” Oops. I’m supposed to keep my mouth zipped.

He grunts. “Lemaire works at it. He knows exactly what to do at any given moment. Knows what he’s capable of and wastes no energy. He’s fucking brilliant at hockey. We’re lucky to have him.”

My turn to grunt, making a mental note of his long-ass speech. So many words. But then it was all about hockey, and that’s his thing. His focus. I can work with that. He runs another clip from the game over and over, and at 11 p.m., I yawn, possibly more from boredom than being tired, I hate to admit. Even I, a massive hockey fan, have my limits. But not Spence. He’s still intensely watching and scrawling notes on an iPad.

“I’m going to bed now.” I stand and pause for a few seconds, watching his profile, his rugged jaw with the shiver-inducing dark stubble, his long dark eyelashes, and those lips. He has one of the most sensual mouths I’ve ever seen on a man close up. The kind I could stare at for far too long.

Rolling up the mat, I sigh and bring it to the closet. He frowns, noticing me only when I cross in front of the TV screen on my way to the stairs—okay, so I didn’t have to cross in front of the screen. I could have gone through the kitchen to the back stairs. However, I wanted his attention and some closure on our evening, maybe a pleasant good-night so I could feel like we’re going in the right direction.

He frowns.

I say, “Goodnight.” Hopeful.

He grunts and goes back to watching the screen, but I notice the tensing of his jaw, that wondrously hard jaw that I’d love to scrape my hand over, and the tic in a muscle there. I register something on his radar, but I’m not sure if it’s good or bad, but as Scarlet O’Hara famously said, Tomorrow is another day.

Circling back to the kitchen, I take the baby monitor up to my bedroom with me. In bed, I close my eyes to sleep, normally a very easy thing for me to do since I give everything I have, every day. But behind my lids, I’m wide awake and staring at a full-blown picture of Spencer.

What I enjoy fantasizing about most is his sexy full mouth and what it would feel like crushed against mine, what he would taste like. Or maybe better yet, how it would feel to have his muscled forearms wrapped around me—

My phone pings, ending my fantasy. Too, too bad, although I suppose it’s not the healthiest fantasy for me. I need to find someone more eligible to fantasize about. Or better yet, stick to forgetting about men right now and concentrate on my new life, my job. Krissy. And Spence. Full circle.

It’s late for a text, so I throw my covers aside and get up to pick up my phone.

Checking the message, I’m not surprised it’s from my younger brother.

Peter: I’m sending apologies but it’s not my fault. Not exactly

Me: What the heck are you talking about?

Silence. Not even three dots. He has a serious case of a guilty conscience, but I have no idea about what. I’m about to put my phone back in the night table drawer when he finally sends another message.

Peter: I didn’t want to tell u, but you need to no. Rumor about Moe that he’s getting engaged 2 that woman. Wants your ring back. Sorry!!

Me: Rumor? U know better than 2 listen 2 rumors. No worries. Gnight.

Pulling open the drawer, I shove the phone back inside. Then I reach into the back and pull out the small ring box. I kept the ring—the only thing of value Moe ever gave me that I kept—because his grandma gave it to me. At least, that’s the way I remember it. The ring had been mine, a gift from Grandma Borelli. It’s true that it had been in Moe’s family for three generations, but his grandma wanted it passed down to me before she passed away.

It’s a blessing that Grandma Borelli passed away before we broke up, and maybe, I took that as a sign that the ring is mine. I’m confused about giving it back. Deep down, I know I need to, and I meant to, but it will hurt because I loved his grandma.

“Sorry the wedding never happened, Grandma B,” I whisper into the starlit room and gaze out the window at the harbor. Clutching the box, I shove it back in the drawer and notice my phone is lit up with a fresh message, so I pull it out.

“Oh, no.” I cover my mouth because that comment was a little too loud. But who could blame me? I just got a text from my ex in the middle of the night. Not a good sign.

Curiosity, and the fact that I’m suddenly wide awake, push me to open the message and check it out.

Moe: Don’t believe the rumors about my engagement. Some chick is wishful thinking.

Me: You’re mistaking me for someone who cares

Moe: haha.

Three dots flicker and fade, then flicker and fade again, and my tummy tumbles—not in a good way—and I wonder what my problem is because I really don’t care. I hate that he can still make me feel bad.

So, don’t feel bad. Feel anything but. Feel sorry for him. Feel happy that you escaped his untrustworthy clutches.

His message finally pops up, and now, I insist on only feeling curious.

Moe: But I do need the ring back. It’s a family heirloom. You could have kept anything else but that, sweetheart. Please understand.