by Avery Flynn
One book down, only thirty or so more to go. Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a puff of air that sent the hair around her face flying. And to think, she could have gone into something less stressful, like air traffic control.
All the nerve-racking work would be worth it, though, when she finished and there was a one-twelfth-size Ursula K. Le Guin curled up on an overstuffed chair by the fire with the Christie mystery in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Plus, the other great authors reading one another’s books throughout the house. Her favorite would probably be Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland sharing a bottle of champagne as they read Emma and Jane Eyre.
Zara was just starting to eyeball the I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings cover when the intercom sounded three quick buzzes. There was only one person in her life who did that—the man who believed in the power of threes, that his ship would always come in, and that dreams were the stuff that got a person through the hard times. What her dad had never realized was that sometimes those dreams were the cause of those hard times.
Anchovy jiggled her workbench a bit when he got up, but he was already across the room, big paws on either side of the intercom before she could tell him to be careful.
“Yes, I know.” She walked over to the intercom and hit the button to unlock the building’s front door. “Your Prince Charming has arrived bearing doggie treats and probably a new tennis ball.”
Since she was on the third floor and her dad was the kind of person who always took the stairs two at a time, it only took him a couple of minutes to get to her door.
“Hey, Button.” He gave her the devil-may-care grin and wink of his that made everyone in every room ever want to be his friend. “You’re looking adorable.”
“Thanks, Dad. You look pretty nice yourself.” In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he looked almost too nice. The man who loved nothing more than a comfy pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt was in new jeans and a button-up. “What are you all dressed up for?”
His gaze flicked down for a second before he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then walked inside her apartment. “Because the sun is out, I’m with my favorite daughter, and I have something spectacular for the world’s best pooch.”
“I’m your only daughter.” She gave him a closer look. Besides the upgrade in clothes, he looked pretty much the same from his hair to the scuffed-toe work boots. Still… “What are you up to?”
“What do I always tell you, Button? Life is a banquet…”
“And most poor suckers are starving to death.” She finished the line from Auntie Mame for him.
Zara sighed. This was their game. He was the Auntie Mame in their relationship, and she was forever the flustered, timid Agnes Gooch.
“Exactly.” He pulled a neon-green ball made out of the hard rubber that the manufacturers claimed was indestructible, which Anchovy just took as a challenge. “So I came to rescue you from your tower to take you to lunch at our favorite hot-dog stand.”
He flipped the ball up in the air, and the dog caught it and ran off to his favorite chew spot under her worktable.
Of course, watching his progress just reminded her of where she should be right now, and it wasn’t chitchatting with her dad. “I’m working.”
“When did you start?” he asked, concern darkening his eyes.
“It wasn’t that early.” She folded under his disbelieving look. “Okay, I’ve been at it since five.”
“It’s three in the afternoon.” He looped his arm through hers and pivoted them both so they were facing the open door. “Hot dogs and snow cones and sunshine are required.”
She looked over her shoulder. “But Anchovy—”
“Has a new toy and is fine to be on his own for an hour. Come on, let your old man show you some fun.”
Taking a deep breath, she went through the never-ending to-do list that lived in her brain. Unlike her dad, she’d never been able to block out the nuts-and-bolts part of everyday living. He always managed to get by on charm and a dream, because she’d been there after her mom left to make sure the bills got paid on time and her school field trip permission slips were signed. After doing that for most of her life, it was hard to turn that part of herself off.
“The library fund-raiser is only a month away, though, and I have to finish this piece between the orders for my Etsy store.”
Her dad cupped her chin and turned her so she faced him. There was no missing the bittersweet tinged with guilt in his eyes. “It’ll be there in an hour, and you can get back to your workaholic ways. Life is a banquet. Don’t starve.”
Of course, her stomach picked that moment to growl because, per usual, she’d worked through lunch. As if that sound was the victory bell, her dad relaxed back into the incorrigible charmer everyone down at the bar or the track or the job site knew him to be.
“You’re not giving me an Agnes Gooch makeover,” she said, grabbing her keys from the hook by the door and telling Anchovy to be a good boy (good luck).
He lifted his arms in triumph. “But she lived!”
Laughing, she closed the door behind them and double-checked the locks. She really should still be at her workbench, even if she’d been there for almost ten hours that day, and then followed her dad down the stairs. And maybe, while her dad stood in line at the hot-dog stand, she checked her Bramble app for the twelfth time that day to see if there were any messages from Caleb, but that didn’t mean anything. Nothing at all.
…
Caleb submerged himself up to his chest in the cold-water bath at the Ice Knights facility. Even with all the off-season workouts, he needed it after that grueling three-hour, on-ice training camp session. Coach Peppers had them doing goal line to the far blue line sprints, more sprints from center ice to the net and back, enough laps around the ice that his guts tried to climb out of his body, and more. His eyes closed and, the back of his head resting against the tub’s edge, he let the frigid water do its work so he wouldn’t be walking like an eighty-year-old man tonight.
“Oh my God.” The unmistakable voice of star forward, total shit disturber, and one of his best friends, Cole Phillips, blasted through the room. “Are you the guy from Harbor City Wake Up? The one whose mommy has to pick out his dates?”
Caleb, not bothering to open his eyes, flipped off Cole.
“Dude, my mom is glued to that shit.” Phillips eased into the ice bath next to Caleb’s, judging by the sound of the sloshing water and the other man’s quick intake of breath. “You do not know how many calls from her I’ve had to avoid so she won’t start in on what a great idea it is again. You have screwed over your gender, man.”
Yes, that was exactly what he had been worried about when the choice had been put before him to either do this and take some of the heated attention off Petrov so he wouldn’t get traded or make all the men on the globe get uncomfortable with the idea of giving up a little control.
“It wasn’t by choice,” he grumbled, keeping his eyes closed.
“Yeah, my mom doesn’t care. She just wants to find me a nice girl who isn’t so dramatic.”
That made Caleb open his eyes and turn to look at Phillips. “You mom isn’t Team Marti, huh?”
Marti was Coach Peppers’s daughter, all-around amazing woman, and the other half of Phillips’s twisted love life.
“She got off that train about six breakups ago.” Phillips’s jaw tightened, and sure, it could have been because of the fifty-degree water, which didn’t sound that frigid until you were easing into it despite the protests of your cold-shrinking junk. “Anyway, we’re here talking about your dating life, not mine.”
This guy was giving him conversational whiplash. “You’re the one who brought up your mom and Marti.”
Cole pulled a face and didn’t respond to Caleb’s valid point—shocker. He shut his eyes again, and they settled into a comfortable silence as other teammates walked through on their way to a post-camp massage or other recovery option.
�
�You coming to Blackburn’s for Xbox and pre–road trip eats tonight?” Phillips asked after about five minutes of silence, which might be a world record for him.
Zach Blackburn was the team captain and complete asshole who’d downgraded to occasional asshole after falling for Fallon Hartigan. Watching that happen in real time had been hilarious because there was none more ill-equipped for that to happen than Blackburn.
“Where else would I be?” Caleb asked as he got out of the tub.
“Getting it on with your teeny tiny redhead.”
The middle finger salute he gave the forward went unnoticed because Phillips had his eyes closed. Caleb had enough shit on his plate without that. Watching his parents’ marriage fall apart had shown him how much work staying together was, and he had to invest all his energy into hockey. Half-assing it was not how he did things. There’d be time for relationships after he unlaced his skates for the last time. Anyway, he and Zara had agreed to the rules—the number one being no relationship. He might play by instinct on the ice, but off it, he followed the rules, whether it was a diet plan the team nutritionist put together or using his turn signal every time he switched lanes.
“It’s not like that,” he said. “Neither of us wants to be dating.”
Phillips smirked. “And yet you are.”
“Only a few more times.”
Three dates to be exact, and then he was done and his life could get back to normal, knowing that he’d fixed the fuckup of his viral video, helped keep Petrov on the team, and maybe earned back a chance at being assistant captain. It was all he wanted, but for some reason—maybe the come down after a hard practice? Yeah, that had to be the reason—it didn’t feel like enough.
…
Just another exciting Friday night at home with her dog, watching TV in her softest pj’s and trying to ignore the fact that work was only a few steps away and she could totally finish up painting Agatha Christie’s face before she crashed out for the night. If only she hadn’t promised Gemma and her dad that she would take the night off. To no one’s surprise, Anchovy was loving it. He was curled up on the couch with her while the TV showed two detectives trying to track down who murdered a super-rich couple while searching for the dead couple’s daughter’s stalker.
She was scrolling through Insta when she got a text message alert that made her drop her phone as soon as she read the name Caleb Stuckey. Damn it. Her screen was already cracked—she couldn’t afford to have it go completely just because her means-nothing Bramble partner made her all nervous and champagne fizzy all of a sudden.
Caleb: What are you doing?
She shoved the box of Chicken In A Biskit crackers off to the other side of the couch.
Zara: Watching Law and Order.
CALEB: Ugh. That show is always the same.
Which was its total brilliance. Law & Order didn’t come home and tell you it had to figure out how to cover the utility bill because the ponies didn’t cross the finish line in the order expected. Law & Order did what it said it would do. It investigated the crimes and prosecuted the criminals. Every. Time.
Zara: I hate surprises, remember?
Caleb: You need to allow a little unusual into your life.
Zara: I guess that’s why I temporarily have you. ;)
Oh God. Why had she used the winky face? What was wrong with her?
Caleb: Cable or streaming?
Zara: Who has cable?
Well, probably him, since he made professional athlete bank and lived a lifestyle totally opposite of hers where he didn’t worry about things like cable versus streaming.
Caleb: Okay, episode number.
Zara: Episode 12. Season 11. I just started. Why?
Her phone started buzzing with a notification that Caleb Stuckey wanted to FaceTime. This was so very not part of their agreement. She lingered over the decline button for a second, but Anchovy bumped her elbow and she ended up tapping accept. Really, that was what happened and she’d testify to it in court.
His face took up the whole screen, giving her an up-close-and-personal view she didn’t normally get because of the more than a foot height difference between them. Seeing him shouldn’t make her straighten up from being slouched against the couch pillows and smooth back the hair that had fallen out of her just-lounging-around-the-apartment topknot.
He rubbed his stubble-covered jaw and grinned at her. “Hey there.”
“This isn’t part of our agreement.” And she was grumpy about it because she believed in following the rules, not because she was happily flustered at seeing him.
“True,” he said, nodding. “But it’s not against the rules, either. We never said no contact outside of the official dates. You left a loophole.”
Okay, he had her there. Really she should have thought of that, but there was no going back to fix it.
What did she do with her phone? Holding it up close to her face was… OMG, she couldn’t stop staring at herself in the little box because there just might be—okay there was—Chicken In A Biskit cracker crumbs on her lips. A good dog would have told her. Anchovy had things to answer for, never mind that he couldn’t speak.
Determined not to let her awkward show—at least not in zoom—she leaned her phone against the art books on her coffee table and tried to slyly wipe her mouth.
“So, what was with playing up your fake admiration during the interview?” she asked as the detectives on the screen started to question a stalker who turned out to be another cop on a case where all the fraud clues pointed to the not-so-grieving daughter.
“Fake?” He scoffed, the sound drawing Anchovy’s attention. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
Uh-huh. Yeah. “You were laying it on pretty thick. I know you’re the one who needs to fix your shit reputation and all, so you have to play the guy who’s open to finding love, but maybe don’t layer it on so heavy next time.” No one was going to buy it if he kept saying things like he was lucky and she was amazing. Not to mention it made the what-if part of her brain wake up, and she learned a long time ago that dreams weren’t worth the mental bandwidth. “So, how was training camp?”
“Good,” he said, setting his phone down on something and walking away, giving her a view of his bedroom with not a single dirty sock or crumpled T-shirt in sight. The sound of Law & Order was low in the background. “We’ve got two preseason road games and then one at home this week.”
Zara was about to tell him that seemed like a lot when he whipped off his shirt and her brain hiccupped. Caleb’s attention was focused on the TV hanging from the wall across from his absolutely humongous bed. Her attention? It was on the muscled expanse of his chest. It was even better than the photo—or twelve—that she’d seen online. And by seen, she meant stared at for an embarrassingly long time wondering what it would be like to run her fingertips over the hard ridges and valleys of his six-pack.
“I knew it!” Caleb raised his right arm and did a fist pump. “That woman has murderer written all over her.”
Murderer?
Woman?
What?
Holy shit, Zara. Stop eye fucking the off-limits man and try to remember what in the hell this episode had been about so he doesn’t know you’re definitely going to be breaking out your favorite vibrator tonight because you’ve obviously lost your damn mind from a lack of regular orgasms.
Desperate to recover, she pulled out a safe observation that any Law & Order viewer knew was true. “Well yeah, any time an actor who everyone knows is on the show, they are the murderer.”
“Not every time,” he said, tossing his shirt into a laundry basket next to the closet and then walking back toward the phone.
“Nine and a half out of ten.” The words came out more like a croak. She needed to end this call before she asked him to do push-ups or something.
“Okay, you got me,” he said, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort.
That was a blessing, because as he made his way across his bedroom, back to w
here he’d left his phone, the little barriers she’d erected to block out his hotness started to fall. Okay, they’d already been crumbling like an ice wall under the melting fire of a White Walker’s dragon. The miles of muscles, the clueless-about-what-he-was-doing-to-her attitude, the way his been-broken-more-than-once nose shouldn’t work to make him look even hotter but somehow did? All of it combined to remind her exactly how long it had been since she’d gotten herself off.
Caleb picked up the phone just as she let out a panic yawn because her body had to let the energy out somehow and why not with an embarrassingly gigantic yawn that probably gave him a good look at her tonsils?
“Am I boring you?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Some of us have been up since five working on an art piece.” Okay, that came out super prickly, but her panties were damp, her nipples were hard, and there was nothing she could do about it until she got off this damn call.
He picked up his phone, once again giving her a close-up of his hotness. “I wanna see what you’ve got.”
Welcome to the club, buddy.
Way too grateful that she hadn’t actually said that out loud, she floundered for something to say. “You’re not really interested.”
“Wrong. I checked you out online. Your Etsy shop is the stuff of my sister’s dreams, and your art pieces are amazing. I really liked the sky pirates one.”
She sat up straight and grabbed her phone from the coffee table. “You really looked me up? That wasn’t BS before?”
“You saying you didn’t Google me?” He paused, extended his arm so the phone was far away from his face, and then brought it back in fast, as if he were zooming in on the knowing look on his face. “Are you blushing, Zara? You must be, because otherwise all those freckles on your face just turned pink for no reason. You did look me up. What did you find?”