Chapter 20
20
OLIVIA
C oncord, New Hampshire is beautiful. It’s got the kind of New England small town vibes that I love so much about Cedar Shade, while being way bigger.
Today’s a perfect day to appreciate it. The sun is shining bright in the blue sky, and it’s not even that cold.
I roll to a stop in the parking garage of the Baron Hotel right downtown.
The ride over was smooth and relaxing. I just jammed to music and let my head clear. It’s early afternoon and the gala doesn’t start until five, so I have a couple hours to just lounge in the room that Brumehill booked for me before I have to change into my dress.
I’m kind of looking forward to it, because the dress is fantastic . These colleges must really want to make a strong impression at this event, because Brumehill gave me a voucher to rent a gorgeous dress from a high-end boutique in Cedar Shade.
I look incredible in it. Maybe there’ll be a hot grad student from another school here to flirt with. I’m not in the mood for a hookup or anything, but I wouldn’t mind a cute guy giving me a fluttery feeling or two and an ego boost.
Dragging my small roller suitcase behind me, I cross the walkway that connects the parking garage to the main hotel. There’s a line for the check-in desk. Not a surprise, I guess, with so many people coming for this NECA gala.
As I approach the back of the line from behind, my eyes settle on the last figure standing there.
My stomach bottoms out at my initial reaction.
There’s something about those broad shoulders stretched across the dark green fleece sweater he’s wearing, something about his height ... and as I slowly approach closer, something about the messy, sandy-blonde hair that blossoms from underneath the backwards hat he has on …
Something about the big, veiny hand that holds the handle of his suitcase …
I slow to a snail’s pace, still several yards behind him.
It can’t be.
Then he turns his head. Just a fraction. But it’s enough.
I catch the sharp cut of his jaw. The high cheekbones. The dusting of stubble that’s darker than his hair. Just the slightest flash of his blue eyes at profile.
My teeth grind. Why the hell didn’t my department head tell me that Tuck would be here?
Not that Dr. Werther would have any reason to suspect I’d care that a particular hockey player would be here. Not that she’d even know he was going to be.
Still, I’m going to direct my frustration at her for now, because it needs to be directed at something.
Light as a feather, I pad forward. I try to be so quiet that he doesn’t even notice anyone’s walked up behind him.
Maybe, just maybe, the universe will do me the incredible, unbelievable, impossible favor of making me so stealthy that Tuck won’t notice me at all, not even when I’m standing right behind him.
That hope against hope is decisively dashed in about half a second. He turns around like he’s got a chip in his brain that immediately alerts him whenever I’m in his presence.
His bright blue eyes flash. He smirks.
My stomach twists. I notice one very concerning thing. Underneath the annoyance I feel at being right behind the guy I was specifically looking forward to spending time away from, is an undercurrent of … gladness.
A warm, elated feeling at seeing his face after fighting with him for a week. A kind of comfort at his baby blue eyes falling on mine again, at the wry grin on his pert mouth that I’d grown so used to, at the way his brow lifts in excitement at seeing me, making me feel … special, in a way.
It’s like sinking into your own, comfortable bed after a week on vacation where the mattress was way too hard.
But that’s just the undercurrent. It’s easy to push it down and let the more immediate annoyed feeling wash it away. This weekend was supposed to be easy, uncomplicated, relaxing. But uncomplicated is the last thing I feel in the presence of Tuck.
“Olivia,” he exclaims, voice boisterous like he’s spotted an old high school friend on a visit back to his hometown. “Fancy seein’ you here!”
My brow lowers. “What are the odds?” I deadpan.
“Gotta be pretty small odds, I reckon. Just goes to show how lucky you are,” he adds with a wink.
Even when he’s needling me, a wink from Tuck is enough to make me feel like wings are flapping in my stomach.
When I was thinking about getting a fluttery feeling from a hot guy minutes ago, this was not what I had in mind.
I blow out a huff. “I can’t believe Brumehill decided to send you to represent the college.”
Tuck tilts his head, eyebrows bouncing. “You’re telling me. I’d have chosen Lane.” He shrugs. “Not complaining, though.”
“Don’t worry, I’m complaining enough for the both of us.”
He lets out a booming laugh, tossing his head back so that the locks of hair spilling from his cap bob luxuriously. “Glad you haven’t lost that sense of humor of yours since we last spoke.”
Since we last spoke . He just breezes past a reference to the fight we had—that we’re still having—without hesitation, without even a twitch in his expression. I wonder if Tuck’s even capable of feeling awkward.
Speaking of breezing past our fight without a hitch …
“Have a good drive up?” he asks. I don’t miss the stress he puts on the word drive .
I narrow my eyes on him. “A lovely one. I was still under the impression I’d be spending a weekend in a different state than you, so my mood was fantastic.”
His utterly unruffled grin only climbs higher. “We never know what the future holds, do we?”
Something flashes in his eyes, a spark of heat in the crisp ocean blue of his irises. It’s like he’s asking me: at the beginning of the semester, you wouldn’t have guessed the things you’ve already let me do to you, would you have?
A shudder rolls up my back as a muscle between my thighs pulls tight.
“By the way,” Tuck continues, his tone suddenly a register lower. More serious. “I’m sorry. If I overstepped my bounds. About your car.” There’s a beat of silence while his apology sinks in, before he continues, “But I’m not sorry that it helped you. I heard you went to that second round of auditions. I bet you fucking killed it.” He grins, genuine pride beaming from his smile. “And I don’t care if you’re still mad at me, I’m coming to watch your opening night in Burlington, because I know you’ll be on that stage.”
My chest swells with a glad feeling. I can’t stop the edges of my mouth from pulling up. Even when I try to flex the muscles into a frown, it’s useless, like the sides of my lips are tethered to two birds soaring upward towards the sun.
Then Tuck turns around, and I realize it’s already his turn at the check-in desk. The line’s been moving along, and I’ve been so wrapped up in this interaction with him that I didn’t even notice my own feet shuffling forward.
He shoots me a wink after the guy behind the counter hands him his keycard. Then, instead of walking to the elevator, he steps to the side of the lobby. Waiting for me.
I wish he wouldn’t.
I give my name. The guy behind the counter taps away at his computer. “Oh, you’re booked with the gentleman,” he says.
My expression pinches. “Excuse me?”
“Olivia Lockley. You’re in room 419. That room is also booked to Mr. …” he hits a couple buttons on his keyboard. “Tuck McCoy. You’ll be sharing the room.” His brow draws down, clearly noting my displeasure. “At least, that’s how it’s booked in our system. Is that an issue?”
“Absolutely!” the word pushes from my lips. My shoulders are tense, my stomach tight, and infuriatingly, there’s a traitorous tingle between my thighs as those words rattle in my brain— you’ll be sharing the room .
With a force of will, I banish that feeling. I will not be sharing the room with Tuck.
After checking to see if there are any free rooms—there aren’t—he suggests I contact Brumehill, as the room bookings were all taken care of by the college administration.
I don’t even know who to call. I wander into the lobby, feeling like I’m on one of those terrible reality shows where they play cruel pranks on people just to film their reactions.
Tuck’s still there. And he overheard.
“Sharing a room, huh?” I know Tuck isn’t the best actor, so the surprised expression on his face keeps me from thinking he’s somehow behind this. “Wow. Someone screwed up.”
“They sure did,” I say through grit teeth and a clenched jaw. I sigh as I reach for my phone. “I don’t even know who to call about this.”
“Probably not much they can do,” Tuck shrugs. His surprise is quickly giving way to amusement.
I gnaw at my cheek as I throw an annoyed glance at him. “I’ll be fine taking care of this. You can go to your room now.”
“ Our room.” Delight dances in his eyes.
I guess I’ll try Dr. Werther. I don’t have her saved to my contacts, so I have to search through my email app for a message from her and hope against hope that the phone number in her signature is her personal number and not just her office phone.
Of course, when I call, the voicemail makes it clear it’s her office phone. I don’t bother to leave a message.
“Could just call the main Brumehill number and talk to the receptionist. Maybe they’ll have some idea who to transfer you to,” Tuck suggests.
“Good idea,” I begrudgingly say. “By the way, why are you still here?”
“Roommates don’t abandon each other in their time of need.” He’s grinning from ear to ear.
“We are not roommates.”
He chuckles. “Why don’t you go ahead and make that call and find out whether or not that’s the case?”
About half an hour later I’ve talked to almost a dozen people, and apparently not a single person responsible for any aspect of booking accommodations for this event can be reached today.
Boy, someone thought this through, didn’t they?
Finally, I end the call, defeated.
I’ve been studiously avoiding glancing at Tuck for the duration of the frustrating phone call. When I finally do, that wide grin is still carved all the way across his face.
“We’re roommates, aren’t we?” he asks with glee.
With a resigned sigh, I push myself to my feet. “Whatever. Let’s go.”
“Room four-one-nine,” Tuck says in a singsong voice as he walks by my side to the elevators. “That’s a lucky number, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Right as the elevator dings and the doors slide open for us, he says, “Is now.”