Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hailey
Jason climbs out of the car first, and I pop my door open before he can come around to my side.
I stand slowly, moving to the back seat where my violin and oversized purse are safely stowed while he pulls my suitcase out of the trunk of his cozy luxury sedan.
Soft leather seats that cradle you far better than the cramped airline seats made it hard to keep my eyes open, even though I want to see Seattle.
I’ve never been to the West Coast before, and I want to drink it in, live in it as thoroughly as possible for however long I end up staying here.
We haven’t talked about what happens when I’ve gotten my feet under me.
Or how long he’s willing to let me take to make that happen.
But from the things he has said, I don’t think it’s a short timeline.
Not like my parents, I’m sure, who’d expect me to stay with them for the shortest amount of time possible and would probably start charging me rent as soon as I made enough money to pay on a consistent basis.
And I mean, at that point, why not just help me get a car, give me a job, and let me stay where I was? If I’m paying for stuff anyway, why not save us all the trouble of living under the same roof again? We all saw how well that worked out before.
But I don’t have to worry about that. Not here. Not with Jason.
He leads the way to an elevator—it’s a pretty standard elevator, I have to admit, even though I gave him grief about the secure parking garage being fancy. I guess if you’re living in the middle of a big city, it’s a good idea, though. Especially if you’re kinda famous like he is.
“Do people recognize you? Like when you go to the grocery store or out to eat?”
He shrugs, his hand still resting on the handle of my suitcase.
“Sometimes. It’s not as bad as for movie stars and pop stars who get hounded by paparazzi pretty often.
Sometimes photos of me out and about show up on celebrity gossip sites, but I don’t do anything all that exciting, so mostly it’s just fans wanting selfies or autographs.
And I don’t mind doing that, as long as I’m not in the middle of something important where being interrupted is extremely rude. That’s pretty rare, though.”
“What do you do? If you get interrupted like that, I mean.”
Another shrug. “I usually still give them what they want. It’s the quickest way to get rid of them. Otherwise, they’ll probably start a scene, and I don’t have it in me to deal with that.”
I frown. “Isn’t that just rewarding their bad behavior, though?”
“I guess. But they’d behave worse if I told them to leave me alone.
Sometimes I make them wait a few minutes, when I don’t for fans who aren’t rude or interrupting things, but …
” He shrugs again, seeming resigned to his fate.
Which, I guess if the worst he has to deal with is a few rude fans every so often …
“How often would you say that happens?”
He screws up his face, looking up at the corner of the elevator as he considers the question. “Not very. Maybe a couple times a year? That’s probably why I don’t let it get to me. It’s just not worth it.”
“Makes sense,” I murmur.
The elevator dings, and the door opens on the tenth floor.
“I’m just down here on the right,” he says, pulling his keys back out of his pocket and leading the way down the hall.
Plush dark gray carpet muffles our steps, and the walls are painted white with grayscale abstract art dotting the spaces between the black doors.
I was right. This is a fancy building.
He pushes open the door and nods for me to precede him.
The carpet ends at his doorway, and I step onto the hardwood floor in his apartment, walking down a short hallway that spills into the living room.
There’s a large, thick rug with a bold geometric design anchoring the living room, an overstuffed chair and a matching set of dove gray couches around its perimeter, a large TV hanging on the wall opposite the couch, and a glass-topped coffee table in the center.
It’s clean, no stack of magazines or books or anything like that. Not even a remote.
Though there are a couple of black side tables on either side of the couch. They have drawers. Maybe the remote is in one of the drawers.
Jason steps behind me. “What do you think?”
“It’s nice.”
“Fancy enough for you?”
Laughing, I nod. “Yes. It’s very fancy. Well done, you.”
He squints at me. “Why do I feel like you’re mocking me?”
I give an exaggerated shrug in response. “You’ll have to answer that question yourself.”
Shaking his head, he grins. “Let me give you a quick tour. This is the living room,” he gestures at the room before us. “The remote’s right here.” He proves me right by sliding open the drawer on the left side of the couch and pulling it out, waggling it back and forth before replacing it.
“How very tidy,” I murmur.
He pauses, looking at me. “Is that … is that a problem?”
“Nooo,” I say. “Not for me. Is it a problem for you?”
“Uh …” His brows knit, and he scratches his cheek. “No. It’s not always quite this tidy, though, I have to admit. I had Miss Kim make sure it’s spic and span just for you.”
“Miss Kim?” I clarify.
“She cleans my place once a week. A few of us on the team use her. She does a great job, and she was thrilled when I told her a young woman was going to come stay with me. You’ll meet her next week—she comes on Tuesdays, though I had her come again yesterday to do a last sweep, and she lectured me about making sure everything was put away and spotless for you. ”
“Do you normally keep your remote in the drawer there?”
He gives me a sheepish look and shakes his head slowly. “No. It’s usually on the coffee table.”
“What else is usually on the coffee table?”
A shrug. “I dunno. Maybe a mug or a cup that I haven’t bothered to take back to the sink. I usually have my tablet or my laptop out. I take calls out here pretty often with my agent, but if you’re home, I’ll do those in my room.”
I’m not trying to laugh at him, but he’s kind of adorable with how he’s trying so hard to make sure his home was tidy and welcoming for me but veered so hard into museum-quality cleanliness.
“You don’t have to become a minimalist on my account.
I don’t care if your tablet or laptop or the remote is out.
Or if you leave mail or … I don’t know …
the newspaper on the coffee table or the breakfast bar”—I gesture toward the kitchen we haven’t even gotten to yet.
“I mean, I’d rather not be buried by trash and junk, but …
” I make a show of looking around. “I don’t think we’re in any danger of that happening. ”
His sheepish grin grows. “Okay. I think I can handle that.”
“Do you have a secret stash of junk somewhere I should know about? If I open the hall closet, will everything fall down on me like in those kids’ shows?”
Now he laughs and shakes his head. “No. I’m generally pretty organized. I don’t like when my place gets too messy—hence hiring a cleaning service—but it usually looks more like someone lives here than the display place you see now.”
“Oh, good. I was a little worried for a second. I’m not a huge mess maker or anything, but I’m definitely not a hide-everything-from-sight level of tidy either.”
“Noted.” He sets the remote on the coffee table, glancing at me as he does so. “Should we continue the tour?”
“By all means.” He shows me around the kitchen, then down a hall on the opposite side of the living room that leads to his bedroom, an office-slash-workout room, and a guest bedroom.
“This is your room,” he says, opening the door to display a room featuring a large bed covered in a quilt that’s all reds and pinks.
A pile of pillows covered in white pillowcases is stacked against the headboard.
There’s a side table with a lamp on one side, and when I go in all the way, I see a dresser in the corner by the closet.
The room’s also big enough to house a small desk and chair on the adjacent wall.
“Wow,” I say, my voice hushed. “This is …”
“You like it?” Jason asks, genuine concern coloring his tone. “The quilt is one my grandma made. Miss Kim insisted we use it in here for you.” He scratches his cheek. “I remember you being more of a tomboy and not really liking pink, so if you prefer something else—”
He cuts off at the sharp shake of my head. “No. This is perfect. Your grandma’s quilt? Seriously?” For some reason, that brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them away, hoping he doesn’t notice.
He shrugs, hands in his pockets. “It’s just a quilt,” he mutters.
But it’s not. Not to me. It’s a family heirloom, and he thinks I should use it.
“Thank you, Jason,” I whisper. “This room is perfect.”
“Well, make yourself at home.” He wheels my suitcase over and sets it near the foot of the bed.
“Your bathroom’s next door. It rarely gets used, so don’t be afraid to make it feel like yours.
If you need anything at all to make the room, the bathroom, hell, the apartment work better for you, just tell me. Within reason, of course.”
“So I can take over the workout room and make it a practice studio?”
He squints at me. “I did say within reason.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Okay. I was just checking where the boundaries are. Honestly, there’s plenty of room in here. I can practice in here.”
“Or you can practice in the living room. Like I said, make yourself at home. There’s still a couple more weeks before training camp and preseason, so I’ll be mostly home right now.
But before long, you’ll be on your own about half the time.
You have free range of the apartment. Don’t feel like you’re only allowed in this room, especially if I’m not even here.
” He turns to leave, but stops himself. “Even if I am here. I don’t want you feeling like you can’t be comfortable in the shared spaces. ”
“I appreciate that. I promise not to practice at two in the morning.”
He grins. “I appreciate that. Anyway, like I said, I’ll let you get settled. You hungry? We could go out for dinner, I could order in, or we can see what’s in the fridge.”
“You don’t know what’s in your own fridge?” I can’t disguise the shock in my voice.
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Yes, I know what’s in my fridge. I mean, more or less. I meant, we can see what you feel like eating from what’s in the fridge. Better?”
“Yeah. And here I was assuming you had someone shopping and cooking for you too. A cleaner, a personal trainer, a chef …”
One of his eyebrows arches up. “The team has plenty of trainers, I don’t need a dedicated one just for me.
Unless I’m rehabbing an injury or something.
But that’s more physical therapist than personal trainer for like a workout or something.
And I cook for myself, thank you very much. At least if I eat at home.”
“And how often do you do that?”
A shrug. “Most of the time. When I’m not on the road, at least.”
“Do you get injured often?”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t say often.
I mean, it can happen. Hockey’s a full-contact sport.
Going at high speeds on ice, guys slamming into each other going for the puck, the occasional roughing …
” Another shrug. “Things happen. But no, I’m not particularly prone to injuries.
Bumps and bruises are normal, of course, but nothing that has me missing games.
But back to dinner. Eat out, order in, or do you want me to cook something? ”
“Do you have a preference?” It feels like a cop-out to ask. He’s asking what I want, after all. But I already feel like I’m putting him out just by being here. I don’t want to add to that with annoying demands.
Squinting, he looks me over. “I’ll make us something. Do you prefer steak or chicken?”
“I’m easy.”
His lips quirk, and he rubs a hand over his mouth as though to wipe away his smile. “Noted. Steak it is. I’ll let you get settled.”
“Thanks, Jason.”
He waves me off as he leaves the room, pulling the door most of the way closed behind him.
I stand there for a minute, unmoving, waiting, though I’m not sure for what, exactly.
Him to come back in? Some signal? When I hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen, that’s apparently my cue.
I come unfrozen and move my violin so it’s next to the desk and out of the walkway.
Then I lay my suitcase down and open it, pulling out my clothes and hanging them in the closet or storing them in the empty dresser.
The rest of my stuff will arrive in a few days, so for now, it’s just what I brought with me on the plane.
It only takes about fifteen or twenty minutes to get everything unpacked and arranged, and after that … I just stand in the middle of the room, staring at it. It’s nice, though it doesn’t feel real.
I guess this is home now.