Page 39 of The Big Puck

He reminds me why I appreciated being with Moe, for his maturity. Too bad he didn’t have much more than that to recommend him. For instance, they didn’t have that electric spark thing she has going with Spencer.

Too bad.

Of course, the spark is all about the right combination. Apparently, there was a spark between him and the girl-who-shall-not-be-named, former friend, who I caught him with. Apparently, the spark was so hot they lost their minds and forgot all about common decency. And me.

Until I walked in. Then I’ll never forget the look of shock and shame.

But I don’t think I saw regret. Because there was none.

Moe and I didn’t belong together. He didn’t have the backbone to tell me, and I didn’t have a clue what I was missing.

That spark.

Jason comes over, and I tell him to come over later and I’ll bake him cookies, and he jumps at the chance.

With more reluctance than is reasonable, I leave without saying good-bye or another word to Spence. Too bad the fact that he’ll be coming home tonight, eventually, doesn’t console me because I probably won’t see him. Not unless he asks me to.

Not unless I give him a reason for him to. Last night, I left him a note telling him about Krissy’s day. But that gave him no reason to ask me. Tonight, I won’t write any note. I won’t even send him any texts for the rest of the day. If he wants to know about Krissy’s progress or see photos of her, he’ll have to ask. It’s better that way.

For me? No, for both of us.

We’ll work out our tension one way or another.

I remember Aunt Hildie’s idea of how we ought to work it out, and my skin goes insta-hot like I just at a chili pepper.

Or, like I just saw Spencer Logan naked and hard.

Chapter 14

SPENCER

After I find myself looking at my phone for a text for the fourth time in twenty minutes, I heave a sigh. It’s getting late, and she hasn’t sent me any photos of Krissy. Radio silence. Probably because they visited in person this afternoon.

Standing up from my desk, I shut the laptop. Enough film. I’m losing concentration because it’s been a long day. Dealing with the media takes a lot of energy from me. It’s strange because dealing with the guys—my team—doesn’t drain me in the least. I thrive on it.

Shoving the laptop in my backpack, I grab my keys and head for the door. It’s only seven, early for me. Lainey might still be in the kitchen. Do I want to run into her? I stop on the threshold. Shit. I can’t let her prevent me from going home when I’m tired and ready to drop.

I wish to hell dealing with Lainey wasn’t so draining. Not that it’s her fault. It’s my own fucking problem that she distracts me, that I can’t get around the fact that I find her sexier every time I see her. Why? Who the hell knows? Because I’m a sick, warped pervert maybe?

Or maybe it’s because you haven’t been with a woman in months, you moron.

Shutting my office door closed behind me with a thud, the decision to call Shonda clicks into place. As I walk away from my office, I look back at the door to check the name plate. It’s still blank. I called the operations office yesterday to take care of it, and they said it would be done today. Tomorrow, I’m going to call Mr. Gavonza. Let the chips fall.

On my drive home, I call Shonda. She works all hours at the Mount Washington Hotel where she’s Assistant Resort Manager and angling for the resort manager job. There was never a question that she would give up her job, but she could have commuted to Portsmouth, although it would have been a bitch.

“What a surprise,” she says answering her phone on the second ring.

“Sorry for the late call.”

“You know me, I’m always up late working.”

“Me, too. I figured since your busy season is winding down you could take the weekend off and come to Portsmouth for a visit. We have our first pre-season game.”

“Two days’ notice. Thanks for the heads up.” She’s not thrilled, but I know her, and since she didn’t say no, that means she’s planning to say yes, but will make it like she’s doing me a big favor. I swipe a hand through my hair, already reconsidering whether this is a good idea.

But since I don’t like how we left things in limbo, we should get off this fence sooner than later.

“Sorry for the last-minute call.” I want to say that she could have called me, but I don’t. That’s not how our relationship has worked. I’ve always been the one to do the calling. She likes to be pursued. Maybe she did pick the wrong guy since I’m not much of a pursuer. My relationships have always been organic.