9. Timothy
Chapter nine
Timothy
My phone buzzes against the counter while I push cold rigatoni around my bowl. Anne's subject line reads "cute lodge pic!!" with two exclamation points.
I should ignore it.
Delete it, even.
Instead, I tap the screen.
The photo loads slowly. First the edge of the fireplace. Then Jonah’s shoulder, blurred in motion. Then me.
I'm mid-laugh, head turned slightly.
Bethany is just visible at the edge of the shot, half-turned near the doorway, but she isn’t the point of the picture.
I am.
More specifically, the way I’m looking at her.
Like the rest of the room exists only as background noise.
It’s just a picture, I tell myself.
Jonah wanders in, sniffs the air, and eyes my bowl. "Is that your dinner?"
I lock my phone.
“What were you looking at?”
Jonah leans sideways, already craning his neck like a scavenger bird that has spotted something shiny.
"Nothing," I say.
I pick up my bowl and move into the living room before Jonah can decide that privacy is optional.
Shane sits on the couch, wrapping fresh tape around the blade of his stick. He does not look up when I enter.
I set my bowl on the end table and place my phone face-down beside it.
Shane smooths the final strip of tape across the blade, then looks up.
“Whatever is going on with Bethany, you need to be careful.”
My shoulders tighten. “Nothing is going on.”
“She works for the lodge.” He sets the stick across his knees. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
The fireplace crackles.
"Nothing's happening," I say, too fast. "She's basically family. She's my sister's best friend."
This sounds bad, so of course I add more.
"And she's too smart to get tangled up with a guy like me." The words come out harsher than intended.
Shane studies me for another second, but he does not push.
I mutter something about taking out the rubbish and flee.
I open the back door, drag the bins into the cold, and let the wind slap some sense into me.
When I come back in, the guys have migrated to the big front windows. Jonah’s breath clouds the glass as he leans closer.
“She’s out there again,” Shane says. For once, they are not talking about Bethany.
I follow his gaze beyond the porch light and the shoveled path.
Near the fence separating the lodge from the neighboring property, Jessie Lestor stands beneath the falling snow with her phone raised.
Her camera is aimed directly at the house.
Maxon groans. “Is she photographing our trash cans?”
Shane narrows his eyes. “The side porch, I think.”
“Maybe the bins really bring the whole property together,” Jonah says.
Shane gives him a look.
“Right,” Jonah says. “Hostile documentation. Much more likely.”
I stop beside Shane and press one palm against the cold glass.
Jessie moves closer to the fence and adjusts the angle of her phone toward the boot-room entrance.
The same entrance where our gear routinely spills into the walkway. The one Bethany keeps warning us to clear.
My stomach tightens.
Jessie is why Lestor Lodge has so many rules. Curfew. Approved occupants.
No property damage allowed. Nothing that might give Jessie Lestor a single inch to work with in the lawsuit against the team.
“She can’t just stand there filming us,” Maxon says.
“She can if she’s on her property,” Shane says.
My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket.
Grant Thorne’s name appears across the screen.
One of the Outlaws’ owners.
And not someone who texts without a reason.
Grant:
I want you to help Bethany with the outdoor rink.
If the players want extra ice, I need one of you to explain exactly how it would be used and what matters from a hockey standpoint.
That’s you.
I’ll meet both of you there tomorrow morning.
Be ready.
I read the message twice.
Behind my reflection in the window, Jessie keeps filming.
On my phone, Grant has just assigned me a new project.
A property dispute on one side.
My sister’s best friend on the other.
And apparently I am supposed to stand in the middle and act like my head is fully in the game.