Chapter 6 #2
“It’s kind of a lot. But it’ll help me as I rebuild my side business,” she adds, then flips open the pink box and offers it to me. “That’s why I wanted to offer you something in exchange.”
“Is that the pink confetti flavor?” I ask, a little sheepishly.
“Mabel said it’s your favorite.”
I grab the box. “It is. Thanks.”
“But that’s not actually what I wanted to offer you. That’s just a little extra. There’s something else I want to do for you in exchange for being my plus-one.”
I peel off a section of the cupcake wrapper. “What’s your offer?”
A night to act out her greatest fantasies? No doubt that Jameson didn’t deliver in bed. I’d deliver anything she asked.
She lifts her chin and smiles, those ruby red lips all glossy and kissable.
“As you may know, I have a side business where I plan huge romantic moments for people—proposals, engagement parties, anniversary dates, and just amazing dates in general. Of course, everything went horribly wrong when I attempted my own proposal. But if I haven’t scared you away with that mistake, I’d love to plan some dates for you.
If you have somebody you’d like to go out with. Free of charge.”
She bounces on her toes. I stare at her like she’s lost her ever-loving mind. Has she?
She seems to take my silence as a cue to keep going. “Maybe you haven’t dated since…”
“Since my wife died,” I supply. It’s always a little strange to say, since Heather hardly felt like my wife at the end. Not that I can say that to anyone. But my failed marriage—a marriage that was breaking apart—doesn’t factor into it.
There’s only one reason I don’t want Remy to plan a date—she’s the first person I’ve had any feelings for in a while.
But I can tell she doesn’t want this plus-one wedding favor to be one-sided.
I contemplate a suitable response as I take a bite of the cupcake.
Buoyed by the sweetness of the treat and also of her, I make a spur-of-the-moment decision and execute it like a fast play on the ice.
“I can see why you’d want to plan some dates, but what I really think you should do is not take me as your plus-one. ”
“Oh,” she says, her face falling. “Really? I thought…”
I put the cupcake back in the box, close it, and step closer to her. “I don’t want to be your plus-one, sweetheart. I want your ex, and everyone else, to think I’m your real date.”
She’s quiet for a long beat. Eyes flickering. Brow furrowing. “You do?”
That might sound fuck-all pushy, so I amend it. “Fake date.”
She tilts her head, a small, curious smile forming. “You’re saying you want to fake date me for all the wedding events?”
This makes perfect sense to me. A plus-one can be anyone—a friend, a rando, some guy who lives across the country and happens to be in town. But a date? That signals something important.
“What I’m saying is a plus-one is a cop-out. But being your new guy? That says your ex is a dumbass for losing you, and you’re moving the hell on like the fucking goddess you are.”
Maybe I’ve said too much with goddess, but the way her smile spreads is divine.
“Looks like you just got yourself a fake date then, mister.”
I inch closer, tuck my thumb under her chin, like I did the night I walked her to her door. Her breath catches. I slide my thumb gently along her jaw. “See you soon.”
“See you,” she says, all breathy.
I don’t leave yet though. When I let go, I ask, “Do you have a hummingbird feeder?”
She laughs, crinkling her nose. “No. Why?”
“You seem like someone who’d like hummingbirds.”
“What gives you that impression?”
I shrug. “Just a feeling,” I say, then turn around and take off since I need to hit the ice.
* * *
I finish the last of the pink confetti cupcake as I head into the locker room, like I’m walking on air. I ball up the wrapper, toss it into the trash can, then wing the cardboard box into a recycling bin.
“He shoots, he scores,” I brag as I swagger over to my stall.
From in front of his stall, Corbin, our center, gives me the strangest look as he tugs on shoulder pads. “You were at my bakery today?”
“Maybe I was,” I say, keeping the cupcake secret as I rip off my tie. The cupcake she got me. Because she fucking asked me to be her plus-one.
“Is that part of your pregame ritual now?” Riggs posits, always inquisitive, always poking holes as he laces up his skates.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “I guess we’ll see if it becomes one when I get a hat trick tonight,” I say.
Then I line up my equipment on the bench in the order I’ll put it on.
It’s the arrangement I’ve been using lately, and it’s working this season, since we’ve been playing well. “Anyone wanna bet against me?”
“I don’t know—is that even allowed, dude? Hate to break it to you, but we’re on the same team,” Miller says, tugging on his leg pads.
“Everyone owes me dinner if I get a hat trick,” I say to the guys.
“How about you just get the fucking hat trick,” Corbin says.
“I would hope a hat trick is incentive enough,” comes the cool, even-keeled voice of our coach as he strides through the locker room.
I cut the trash talk as Coach Ahmed chats about strategy and how to beat the Boston Blizzards. I listen to every word with the thrill of a secret in my chest.
But soon, it won’t be a secret, once we’re pretending to be together. Yep, I’ll get to spend time with the woman I’ve had a seriously inconvenient crush on for a while.
I hit the ice for warmups, feeling like I’m flying, stopping only to tap my shoulder for my dad.
Then, it’s time to focus solely on the game.
I race down the ice, flanking Corbin as he snags the puck at the face-off. He sets the pace, slicing it to me, and I race around the back of the net, lasered in on the rink, hunting for an opening and slipping it back to Riggs.
He shoots, but their goalie blocks it.
It’s a tight game for the first period, but in the second period, I attack, attack, attack till I finally send that bad boy past the goalie’s legs.
The lamp lights, and I punch the air.
We cheer, and when I hop over the bench, I down a swig of water from my bottle, ready to hit the ice again soon with all this energy.
Maybe it’s the internal boost that comes from knowing I get to be Remy’s “new guy” for the next few weeks. Whatever it is, I feel unleashed.
When the line changes and I’m back out there, Riggs feeds me the puck in a routine pass.
I’m already moving, and even with the Boston D-men bearing down on me, my skates eat up the ice.
I blow past their defenseman, then line up for a wrist shot.
But nope. The goalie will be expecting it.
I deke to the right and send a backhand… right through the net.
Yes! Riggs skates over and we high-five—with gloves on.
I skate hard always, but especially tonight. My cells are buzzing. Maybe she’s watching. Maybe she’s working. Either way, I’m going to play the part of her temporary boyfriend as well as I’ve scored in tonight’s game.
I don’t even grumble when she texts me that night with the first set of instructions. The attire for a picnic.
It sounds like hell, and yet I can’t fucking wait.