Chapter 18
Eighteen
Faye
He’s gone before I recover from the wink enough to tell him that while I found the research portion of my hockey books fascinating, I’m still not a hockey fan.
Fan of the players and the behind-the-scenes, yes.
Fan of actually trying to track the puck on TV—or at the arena? No.
I’ve been to a Grizzlies game, having heard that the best way to appreciate the sport is watching a game in person.
And while I enjoyed the energy of the fans—and the adorable intermission games, one featuring tiny hockey players and the other adults trying to ride tricycles on the ice—I’d also learned that hockey wasn’t really for me.
But I don’t get to tell Gray that.
Because of the wink.
And…
The rest of it.
The kisses and the clothes, the meal and the questions. He even put on my socks.
And made sure I had cozy pajamas.
And left me his phone.
And the container of cookies.
So, now it’s nearly game time and I’m curled up in a bed in Gray’s house. Curled up in a bed in the house of the neighbor I’ve been in love with for four years…and that love formed solely from the fantasy of a gorgeous, seemingly sweet man whom I didn’t know but secretly admired.
The real thing is infinitely better.
The real Gray is…incredible.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand and thinking it’s my insurance agent who promised to call me right back, I snag it and swipe my finger across the screen.
“Hello?”
There’s a long pause, long enough that I’m beginning to think that it’s a spam caller, readying to hang up.
“Hello?” I say again.
“Who the fuck is this?”
I go stiff at the furious female voice, so cold and sharp that if she were here in person I’d be dodging flying spikes of ice.
“Um,” I say through frozen lips. “I’m Faye.”
“Okay, Faye,” the woman says derisively, “Why the fuck do you have my husband’s phone?”
Husband.
Fuck.
That one word burns through every fantasy I’ve built about him.
“Courtney?” I ask.
“Who else would I be?” she snaps.
Not the ex. Not the awful ex who finally signed the divorce papers and…who I saw in this very house doing all sort of X-rated things with Gray.
Beautiful. Confident.
A nightmare.
So yeah. Fuck.
“Right,” I murmur. “Well, I’m Gray’s next door neighbor.” I explain about the fire. “He’s at his game but let me borrow his phone because mine is…well, you know, burned. But—” I clear my throat. “I can let him know you called?”
Warn him, really.
There’s another long pause.
“His neighbor?”
I nod, though she can’t see me. “Yes,” I say into the phone when she makes an impatient noise. “And I don’t want to rush you off the phone but my insurance agent is calling on the other line.”
Not a lie.
I can hear the clicking in my ear.
“Your house really burned down?”
My lungs freeze. But I seriously need to end this call.
Mostly because it’s a suspicious question.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I lost everything.”
Another pause.
And the other line is still beeping.
“I really need to grab that call,” I murmur. “I’ll pass on that you’ve called when he gets home.”
“Home? Are you staying at his house?”
Shit.
“Gotta go. Bye!”
I hang up, stomach twisting because I know I’ve just stepped into Gray’s world in a way I don’t undo.
I’ve seriously messed up.
“Shit,” I whisper.
Then I jab at the phone screen so I don’t miss the call from my insurance agent.
It’s not an easy conversation and it’s not short—but Courtney calling back nearly a dozen times plus the copious amounts of texts she sends makes it even less bearable.
Every buzz-buzz has my tension ratcheting up.
Add that in to listening my agent, Carrie, telling me the next steps I need to take and internalizing everything I’m going to have to do—not just to replace my house and car and the personal belongings I can, but also navigating permits and zoning and adjusters…
It’s overwhelming.
And it certainly doesn’t help that I’ve triggered Gray’s nightmare of an ex into sending several dozen text messages and calling his phone too many times (and don’t forget the voicemails she’s leaving).
I rub my forehead, listening to Carrie’s final advice of, “Take a breath, let me handle this, and focus on yourself for the next few days.”
“Right,” I murmur. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Carrie.”
But I know I’m lying to her as we exchange goodbyes and I hang up.
How can I focus on myself when my house is in ruins next door?
How can I focus on myself when I’ve unwittingly unleashed Gray’s ex?
How can I focus on myself when I’m wearing the socks Gray put on me and the pajamas his friends brought and the remote he left is right next to the cookies Bri baked who might share Molly’s strudel recipe with me…all of which is reminding me how damned great Gray is?
I nibble at my lip. “Damn.”
It’s a mess all around.
His cell buzzes again and I sigh.
Talk about a mess.
Courtney’s messages were filled with more and more vitriol as my call with Carrie went on, so much so that I stopped reading them. Right now, though, I can’t stop myself from looking down, gaze going to the banner that’s appeared at the top of the page.
Quickly scanning it, even as I brace.
But this time it’s not from Courtney.
It’s from Gray.
GRAY (via Smitty): Smitty let me borrow his phone.
Okay, right. It’s from Gray from Smitty’s cell.
GRAY (via Smitty): Getting ready to head out onto the ice soon. I just want to make sure you were good.
My eyes flick to my toes, covered in those cozy socks.
And my heart squeezes.
FAYE (via Gray): I’m good. Just enjoying your guest bed. The mattress is great and the cookies are delicious.
I weigh telling him about Courtney.
Decide it’s best to leave that for after his game. The last thing he needs is to be worrying about her nonsense.
GRAY (via Smitty): And the upcoming entertainment is going to be just as great.
FAYE (via Gray): Entertainment?
GRAY (via Smitty): The Grizzlies kicking the Eagles asses.
FAYE (via Gray): I’m thinking this isn’t the time to mention that I don’t actually enjoy watching hockey.
A pause.
Long enough that I’m thinking it was dumb to share that, especially right before he’s playing, you know, hockey.
Long enough that when the pause ends, I find myself being reckless as I settle back on pillows that I swear smell of Gray’s cologne.
(But not finding myself caring all that much about my recklessness because it is Gray).
Gray (via Smitty): …
Faye (via Gray): I’m not so much a hockey fan as a fictional hockey hero fan.
Gray (via Smitty): I can’t decide if I’m insulted or not.
Faye (via Gray): You’re not.
Gray (via Smitty): I’m not?
Faye (via Gray): Because tonight is your chance to make me one.