Chapter 11
CARTER
Shelby meets me at the house late on a Thursday afternoon.
The Jaguars leave for a week on the road first thing tomorrow morning, so I’m glad it worked out that I can see it now.
We’ve already got paperwork for an offer ready to go.
If I like what I see today, I’ll sign, and Shelby will have everything she needs to negotiate and work out the details while I’m gone.
Assuming Sarah also likes the house. Which is definitely an important piece of this.
She’s been in New York just over a week, and I’m already itching to see her again. She’s on my mind pretty much all the time, which somehow feels both reckless and inevitable.
We still don’t really know each other—that makes it reckless. But we’re about to announce our engagement, so how can I not think about her? I’ll see her the day after tomorrow, and I’m already counting down the hours.
Since she posted about our relationship and tagged my account, I’ve been inundated with messages from family and old friends and former teammates.
The captain from my AHL team, Alec Sheridan, called and said I owe him a phone call with a very thorough update.
And Mom texted to say she was happy we’d finally gone public so she can talk about it with her friends. I honestly didn’t expect her to wait, so I’m impressed by her restraint.
Even after eight years of playing professional hockey, I still feel surprised when people I know respond to news they hear about me…
not from me. Instead, they read about it on social media or see a headline on ESPN.
Generally, I try to avoid all the social media stuff.
The team has people who will let me know if there’s anything I should be concerned about.
But this time, I find myself itching to look, to see what people think of Sarah and me together, especially now that everyone knows she’s Miles’s sister.
I push my hands into my pockets and look toward Shelby’s car. She’s gotten out, but she’s on the phone, leaning against her driver’s side door. She looks up and makes eye contact, mouthing a sorry as she holds up one finger.
I wave to let her know I’m fine. While I wait, I pull out my phone and text Sarah, letting her know I’m at the house and that within the hour, I should be able to call her so she can look at the place with me.
We’ve been texting quite a bit since she left, not about anything in particular.
Just casual stuff. How much she loves to read.
My secret ability to identify all eighty-eight constellations in the night sky.
She told me a little about growing up in Canada.
And I outlined all the things I both love and hate about having an identical twin.
She shared the playlist she listens to when she’s painting, and I’ve been playing it in my truck every time I drive anywhere.
We have surprisingly similar tastes in music.
Well, sort of. If you subtract the nineties boybands and add in a little bit of nineties country, then we’d be almost entirely aligned.
Everything that brought us to this point happened so fast, it’s been nice to feel like we’re getting to know each other. There’s also a certain safety in texting. A distance that makes it easier to ignore how attracted I am to her.
The one thing we haven’t talked about is her childhood. She’s mentioned a few vague things about Canada, but mostly, she steers clear of anything that even hints at her life growing up.
I have to believe that has something to do with why she doesn’t go to hockey games.
I won’t say I wasn’t disappointed when I found out I’ll never see her cheering in the stands.
Having family support is a big part of hockey culture.
Then again, she isn’t my real family, so do I really have the right to be disappointed?
I don’t know a lot about Miles and Sarah’s history, but I know they went through some stuff. And I definitely got the sense her reason for avoiding hockey games runs deep.
I hope she’ll eventually trust me enough to tell me, but she asked me not to ask, so I won’t.
Still, it triggers something in me—some need to protect, to make sure she knows she will always be safe with me.
Finally, Shelby drops her phone into her bag and hurries up the driveway. “So sorry to keep you waiting,” she says. “I’ve got another deal that’s supposed to close tomorrow, and my buyers are getting cold feet, so that was me talking them off a ledge.”
“It’s no problem,” I say.
She glances behind us, eyes scanning the driveway. “I wondered if you might bring Theo to give you an extra opinion.”
Funny she should ask. I did ask Theo to come, but he declined, saying he thought it might be uncomfortable for Shelby if he did.
I pushed him for more information, wanting to make sure he didn’t play her in a way that would require me to apologize on his behalf.
He swore he didn’t. She just felt more of a spark than he did and was really disappointed when he called things off.
Shelby is beautiful and very much Theo’s type. And she’s been pleasant and easy to work with, so I’m not sure what Theo didn’t see in her. But he’s been cagey about relationships lately, talking less than he usually does. It makes me think he’s hiding something, but I couldn’t begin to guess what.
“No, he couldn’t make it,” I say. “He had somewhere else to be today.”
She gives me a pointed look. “In other words, he just didn’t want to see me?”
I respect her too much to lie to her, so I offer her a grimace. “Sorry. He said he thought it might make you uncomfortable.”
She huffs out a laugh as she unlocks the house. “That man—I swear, one day he’s going to make a woman very happy. But it might take a miracle worker to get him to open his heart.”
I study her, not sure how to sync up this version of events with what Theo told me. Maybe she misread the whole situation, but knowing what Theo has been through, it wouldn’t surprise me if he has a hard time opening up in romantic relationships.
I have no response to Shelby’s comment—I won’t utter a word against my brother in any circumstance—and she must realize as much because as soon as we’re in the entryway, she claps her hands. “Okay! Let’s look around,” she says.
I walk through the entire house, but at this point, it feels more like a formality. The interior is great. And the room over the garage really will be perfect for Sarah.
Shelby has been trailing me, pointing out her favorite features as we move from room to room. “So what do we think?” she asks as we make our way back to the kitchen.
“Pretty sure I want it,” I say. “I just need to call my girlfriend and make sure she agrees.” To my surprise, the word girlfriend rolls right off my tongue, no hesitation.
Shelby’s eyes widen. “Oh, fun! I didn’t realize. She’ll be moving in with you?”
“I hope so,” I say. “I’m about to propose, so that’s the goal.”
“Yay!” Shelby says, looking genuinely excited for me. “That’s seriously so great. I’m sure she’s going to love it.”
“Sarah’s in New York for work or she would be here,” I say. “But I’d like to FaceTime her so she can see it before we make an offer.” I pull out my phone and hold it up. “Do you mind if I…”
“Go right ahead!” Shelby says. “I’m just gonna head back to my car and answer some emails. Should I come back in about twenty minutes?”
“That’s perfect,” I say. “Thanks, Shelby.”
I pull up Sarah’s contact info and initiate the call. Even though I texted and gave her a heads up and she told me this morning she’d definitely be available, when the phone rings three, then four times without her answering, I start to worry I’ve somehow missed her.
“Hey!” she finally says as her face pops onto my screen. “Sorry. I was painting, and I had to scramble for the phone.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” I say.
“No! This is great. I’m due for a break. How’s the house? Do you love it?”
She must have the phone propped up on something, because her hands are both free. She’s sitting on a stool, and I can see a palette of paint on a table beside her, so I’m guessing the phone is on her easel.
She lifts her hands to the small of her back and stretches. Her hair is up, a scarf tied around it, and she’s wearing her green glasses. My favorite ones. Her eyes are bright, her face a little flushed, and she looks really, really beautiful.
“Where are you right now?” I ask.
“At the Bainbridge. Studio hours are over, but I was in the groove, and I didn’t want to stop. And since I’m staying upstairs, I figured, why not?”
Her first night there, she gave me a video tour of her very tiny accommodations—a two-hundred-square-foot apartment above the art studio.
Tiny bed, tiny couch, tiny bathroom, very tiny kitchen.
Sarah went on and on about how charming it was, but it’s so small, I’m not sure I would even make it through the door frames without having to duck.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“You really want to talk about this now? I thought you wanted to show me the house.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” I say. “Tell me.”
Her eyes shift, like she’s looking past me.
Likely at her artwork. “It’s a piece for my show at Second Light.
All the pieces will be demonstrations of mood, but I’m only using facial expressions.
So people in isolation, no setting, no background.
Just their faces with the rest of their head and shoulders dissolving into the background. ”
“Sounds…difficult?” I say, and she grins.
“Yeah, I’ve second-guessed my decision about ten million times. I’ve got a few done already that I feel really good about, but the woman I’m painting now is giving me trouble. I was going for curious, but…I don’t know. What I want her to say and what she wants to say—they aren’t lining up.”
“Is this woman someone in particular?” I ask.