Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
SIENNA
Cat: Look at this monstrosity.
My phone chimes again, and a screenshot pops up. I tap on it and scan the details, eyes narrowed and assessing. The image includes several designs by artists I know well.
In fact, an email from the group of them never would have made it anywhere near Catherine Bouvier’s inbox if not for the pretty settlement fund that has bankrolled their careers.
The lines are all wrong. The fabric is cheap, and the general design is shoddy. Unoriginal too. Each piece is a rip-off of items in a collection I started three years ago and scrapped.
I roll my eyes. As if taking my money wasn’t enough, they took my designs and didn’t even do them justice.
Me: You know I can’t comment.
Cat: You’re no fun.
Me:
Cat: Drinks tonight?
Me: Can’t. I’m traveling with the team. Can you do next Wednesday?
Cat: Yes! Let’s go to Allure.
Me: Stop trying to get me to go to your family’s sex club. It’s weird.
Cat:
Cat: We can sit at the bar. I’m not asking you to play.
I roll my eyes. Why is everything that comes out of this woman’s mouth laced with innuendo?
Me: I’ll keep you posted.
Cat: Please do, because there’s a position I’d love to discuss with you.
Me: I’ve got a job.
Cat: That’s not where I was going with this…
I snort. See, everything sounds sexual.
Cat: I’m talking about a career.
My heart twists. A career. I had one of those. And I loved it. What I’m doing now? It’s a job.
She means well. I know she hates that I’ve lost everything just as much as I do, but I wish she’d leave it alone. Keeping myself convinced that the designing part of my life is over is hard enough without having to constantly reassure everyone else.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and when Hannah’s name appears on the notification banner, I breathe out a sigh of relief. This is the perfect excuse to ignore Cat’s last message.
“Hey, I’m almost ready. Want me to meet you at your room?” I snag my purse from the bed and give myself one last look in the hotel mirror. Though I’m wearing Bolts blue, I learned my lesson this week and left the jersey at home.
In answer, a baby cries. “About that,” Hannah says. “Mav is running a fever.”
I wince. “Oh my gosh. How can I help?” I have almost no experience with babies, but I’d be an asshole if I didn’t offer.
“Actually,” she hedges. “I need a favor.”
“Anything.” I tap the speaker button and navigate to my Notes app so I can jot down a list of what she needs. Surely there’s a pharmacy nearby.
“Can you bring Ollie to the game?” she asks as Mav’s cries get louder. “Shh,” she soothes him. “I hate to burden you—”
“It’s not a burden at all,” I say quickly.
I really don’t mind bringing the little guy, and he’s certainly easier to deal with than a baby. Though I’m not sure Noah will be keen on leaving his son in my care. Not after our less-than-cordial conversation on the plane.
And what if he’s the overprotective type? I could see that. He probably doesn’t leave his child with anyone who doesn’t have babysitting certifications and Red Cross training.
Nose scrunched, I lock my phone. “Are you sure Noah would be okay with it?”
“Already texted him. He said he’s okay with it as long as you don’t mind. I just sent you his contact info. Text him so he has your number.” A rustling sound dampens her voice for a moment, but then she’s back at full volume. “I’ll have Ollie ready in five. Sound good?”
My screen lights up, and when I tap on Noah Harrison’s contact card, apprehension rises inside me. Texting him means he’ll have my number.
But I offered to watch Ollie, and this is part of the gig. Obviously his father will need a means of contacting me. After tonight, I’ll delete his number and tell him to do the same. Then forget I ever had it in the first place.
Absolutely harmless.
Right. Like anything involving Noah Harrison is harmless.
Me: Hi, this is Sienna Langfield.
I reread the message a dozen times, second-guessing myself. It’s professional enough, right? Not flirty. Not awkward.
Instead of hitting Send, I read it again. And again until the words jumble together.
I shake my head to clear my vision. This is absurd. I hit Send and then type out another message.
Me: Hannah asked me to take Ollie to the game. If you’re okay with that, I’ll head over and pick him up now. Is there anything I need to watch out for? Allergies? Foods we should avoid?
I stew over that message as well, pondering whether I should include something else. Something that proves I’m a responsible adult willing to do him a favor and not a woman trying to get into his pants.
Because I’m not. Trying, that is.
Been there, done that, obviously, but not going there again.
With a huff, I hit the little blue arrow, and when the whooshing sound signals that the message has been sent, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the screen, waiting for a response.
The message shows it’s been delivered, but I get nothing in return. Not even those three dancing bubbles.
I need to confirm that he’s okay with this, but I really don’t want to call him. Texting is one thing, but calling is a step too far. And I’ve already taken too many of those. Every time I’m around the man, I do stupid things. Like strip. Or orgasm.
I can’t do either of those with him. Not anymore.
Knee bouncing, I wait. I’ll give him a few more minutes, at least.
Just as I’m typing up another text, my phone vibrates and lights up, an unsaved number flashing on the screen.
My heart thumps heavily. Of course he’d call rather than text. I consider not answering, but I’m determined to keep this professional, so I do what a boss who doesn’t know what it feels like to be touched by him would do and answer the phone.
“Hello, this is Sienna Langfield.”
The moment the words come out of my mouth, I cringe. God, I’m ridiculous.
Noah’s breathy laugh in response only highlights that. “And this is Noah Harrison. You know, the guy who—”
“I know who you are,” I snap.
Deep voices chatter in the background, meaning he’s probably in the locker room, and the last thing I need is for my brothers to question why he’s calling me.
“I was just going to say the guy whose kid you’re bringing to the game tonight.” He sighs, his breath making the line between us crackle. “But only if you’re really okay with it.”
I brush at a speck of lint on my pants, needing something to do with my hands. “Yeah, of course. Is there, uh, anything I need to know?”
“No. Though I will apologize in advance for anything he says that may hurt your feelings.” Noah’s voice goes up an octave like he’s sincerely concerned that it’ll happen.
“I’ve got tough skin,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Besides, his comment about the plane was spot-on. Can’t be mad when a person points out the obvious.”
Noah chuckles. “Tell that to his first-grade teacher.” His tone is low, laced with both exasperation and humor. “She was less than impressed when he told her that halitosis is nothing to be ashamed of, but that she should treat it so the people around her don’t have to suffer alongside her.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. I slap my hand to my mouth to stifle it, then pull it back an inch and exhale into it, testing my breath. “I’ll be prepared.”
“Good. And seriously,” he says, “thanks for this. I know this isn’t in your job description, but Ollie and I don’t get to spend nearly as much time together as I’d like, and he never gets to travel with me like this, so this trip is special.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. “I really don’t mind at all. Besides, without Hannah, I need a buddy who can explain what’s happening on the ice. I assume Ollie can handle that?”
He hums. “He knows just as much as Hannah, I promise. After the game, bring him down to the locker room. He can hang with me so you don’t get stuck waiting while we shower and do post-game interviews.”
“I’ll, uh, I’ll text you,” I stammer. It’s a dangerous offer, because now that we’ve opened this line of communication, it brings the two of us a little farther into one another’s orbit.
But it’s preferable to walking into the locker room and potentially getting an eyeful of naked asses.
Especially the asses belonging to my brothers.
I shudder. My brothers have no shame. Except Brooks, though Sara makes up for it tenfold. My other sisters-in-law aren’t much better either. Hence the knowledge I didn’t want to possess regarding who’s pierced and who has tattoos and Lennox’s passion for riding said piercings.
Noah sighs into the phone. “Thanks, Sienna.”
“Have a good game.”
Once I’ve ended the call, I sit in the silence, replaying the conversation. The sound of his voice soothes me in a way I want to despise. The easy laughter lights me up.
A smile tugs at my lips without my permission. Then my fingers join in, tracing the expanse of it. Despite all the emotions that man conjures, I can’t deny that the predominant one is always joy.
There isn’t another soul on this earth who’s ever left me feeling this way. And regardless of how much I fight it, I don’t think that will ever change.
As we head into the arena, Ollie walks by my side, head held high, smile on his face, decked out in Boston Bolts blue, with his dad’s name and number on his back.
He hasn’t stopped talking since I picked him up. He was ready and eagerly waiting when I showed up, clearly psyched for a break from Mav’s tears.
“That kid has some lungs on him,” he muttered as Hannah shut the door behind us.
“Do you want to stop and grab a snack on the way in or wait until we get into the suite?”
Ollie shakes his head. “Nah, I want to get a good seat.”
My chest tightens with affection. The admiration he has for his dad is adorable. “Do you want to go down to the ice and watch them warm up?”
He comes to a screeching halt, his eyes wide. “Really?”
My brothers’ kids all love it, but this level of excitement is unexpected. “Sure, come on.”