Page 27 of Yard Sale

Pressing my hands to the ferry railing, I stared down at the row of cars. I could see mine near the front—a strategic move on my part after getting to the dock almost three hours early and batting my eyelashes at the entry guard who didn’t know what to do with all the flirting besides wave me in.

And now I had three and a half hours before I could drive off to our little beach house and take an entire week to myself without people asking me left, right, and center to do them favors or give them attention. I booked myself a private nook, splurging with some of the money my dad insisted I take, though I hadn’t done more than drop my bags off behind the curtain before coming out to look at the water.

There was a sense of peace out here, one that I hoped would follow me as I got to the cottage.

There were no articles to write, no problems to solve, no looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t going to run into my ex, or a friend who wanted to go out until three am getting shit-faced, or some hockey player from the NHL who was trying to get in good with my dad.

Or some hockey player from the PPHL who was pissed at me because I ran my mouth and my typing fingers about Tiago like an ableist jackass and never tried to make it better.

But it wasn’t like I was going back to Boston. Maybe. Probably. I still had no idea where to go from here, and I wasn’t going to figure it out on a boat ride.

Taking a deep breath, I braced myself to let go of the railing when a tall, bulky body stepped up beside me, his elbow knocking into me.

“Whoa, what the fuck,” I started, then froze.

The man beside me was tall, broad, and wearing a long-sleeve Henley and jeans, which were cinched around his right leg with a big, heavy knee brace.

His eyes—the eyes I knew a little too well—were shaded by dark glasses, and he was holding a white cane in his hand.

Tiago held it up. “Sorry. I couldn’t see you.”

I was at a crossroads. I had no idea if he could see me enough to recognize me, but it was unlikely, considering he would not have been polite or apologized if he knew who I was. So, I could scamper away and use his blindness to my advantage and avoid him.

Or I could be the better person and make myself known.

God, who or what did I piss off for this to be my life? What was Tiago even doing here? And why now?

Tiago scoffed. “It’s not catching, you know. Blindness isn’t contagious.”

“I know that,” I snapped without thinking. “I’m not a moron.”

And, well, that would do it. He froze, and horror melted over his face as he shoved his glasses up into his hair, squinted against the sun, then turned his head at an angle before freezing.

“Esti de marde! Why are you here?”

“I didn’t realize I needed to check in with you, Mr. Warden, sir.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Cute.”

“Oh, honey, I’ve known I’m cute for decades. You can work on other, more unique compliments.”

Watching his cheeks flush was like watching a living painting. He could be the most basic bitch I had ever met—like a reformed frat boy who learned to be humble because life kicked him in the balls a few too many times.

But he was also gorgeous. Not my usual type, but there was something about a jaw that could cut glass that kind of did it for me. He also looked nothing like Leon while also not being too baby-faced, and that helped.

And it also didn’t help because the last thing I needed was to fantasize about climbing this man like a tree.

Tiago said nothing, then turned and let out a small sigh as he tapped the tip of his cane on the ground. I’d never seen him using it before. The few times he had it with him at the arena, he was holding it folded in his hand or in his back pocket.

It was almost like an accessory.

Or maybe a security blanket.

But he was gripping it tightly now, and there was uncertainty on his face that was making my guts squirm.

“Do you want help inside⁠—”

“No,” he snapped, cutting me off. Then his jaw tightened so hard I could see a vein pulsing in his temple. After a beat, he let out a breath. “I’ll just sit on one of the chairs.”