Chapter 6
NOVA
“It’s too sweet.” Mari makes a face.
“It’s cake. Is there such a thing?” My fork glides through the smooth cake, and I pop a bite into my mouth. The soft lemon flavor makes me moan.
“I want to try the lavender buttercream again.”
It’s my third day in Denver and officially the weekend. We’re testing wedding cakes at a fancy bakery in town.
All three we’ve tried, including a chocolate hazelnut with vanilla frosting, have been delicious. But Mari can’t seem to find one she likes.
“It’s better than sex, right?” A woman around my age blows in, her golden skin flawless and her dark hair twisted back in dozens of tiny braids.
“Chloe sends her half-assed apologies. She got sucked into a meeting, so I get to play taste-tester with you. Which is lucky for you because I have better taste.” Her dancing eyes land on me. “I’m Brooke. You must be Nova.”
She folds me in a hug that’s warm.
“You’re biased,” Mari points out. “You found the baker.”
“They hired me to help them with their social media presence. I knew they’d be perfect for the wedding,” she explains as she drops onto a stool next to me.
“Do you work with the team, too?”
“They wish. I have my own empire.”
“She means her million Instagram followers,” Mari supplies.
“Almost two, and I busted my ass for every one of them.” Brooke winks. “But my brother, Jayden, plays point guard.”
A basketball team is only a handful of people in an entire city. How the hell is everyone connected to this one?
She takes a bite, but my mind drifts back to my visit to the stadium yesterday and the man I encountered in the gym.
A tall, tattooed god glistening with sweat, his eyes burning like coals.
On the plane, he was impressive but down to earth.
But the stadium was his natural environment.
When I got back in the car, I yanked out my phone and typed “Kodiaks basketball players” into the search bar.
Milliseconds later, I had my answer.
Clayton Wade.
Power forward.
Twenty-nine years old.
Two-time all-star.
Six feet, five grumpy inches of athlete wrapped in a "fuck you" tattoo.
My dream guy wasn’t some stranger I’d never see again that I could safely fantasize about.
He’s Harlan’s star player.
“You should play basketball. I bet you’d be good at it.”
He must have thought I was such an idiot.
Except the way he looked at me made me feel as if I was burning up.
I scroll through images of him dunking the ball, running up the court.
In interviews.
In media campaigns.
In one image, he’s looking straight at the camera. He’s impossibly gorgeous and grumpy, as if the idea of standing still for a single photo puts an irreversible kink in his day.
And I told him all my secrets.
"I owe you a tattoo."
"This is how you redeem it."
The best thing to do would be forget we ever met.
It’s why after returning from the stadium, I tried to scrub the number from my hand.
Clay wrote it in Sharpie.
Two days later, it’s starting to fade, but I still keep my hand clenched tight when I’m around Mari.
“Nova has a boyfriend. He’s perfect. We spent time with him at Christmas.”
I snap back to the present.
“Oh?” Brooke says.
“I keep telling her she needs to get him to propose.”
“No pressure,” Brooke weighs in, misunderstanding my silence.
“I don’t even know if I want to get married.
Of course, my parents would love it. But I’m twenty-three.
I have at least another ten years before I need to figure anything out.
If they want grandchildren, they’ll wait for Jay to provide them. ”
“Do players date?” I ask, relieved for the change of subject. “It sounds like they’re on the road all the time and it would be hard to keep a relationship going.”
Brooke shifts on her seat. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“My brother and Chloe.”
My eyes widen, but my sister nods.
“They had a thing back in college," Brooke says. "Neither of them will say who dumped who, but I still give him shit about it.”
Wow. A breakup is hard enough, but seeing the person you loved every single day would be so much worse, especially if there were unresolved feelings.
Brooke spears a bite of another cake. It falls off her fork, misses the table and hits the floor. “Whoops.”
Mari looks offended, but Brooke only shrugs.
“We’ve done way worse.” I stab another bite of cake, holding it in my fork in a catapult position directed at my sister. “Remember when we used to have food fights?”
“Outside, when we were ten. Don’t you dare,” Mari hisses.
Brooke laughs.
My grip slips and the cake shoots toward Mari, landing in a plop in front of her. My sister jumps from her seat, emitting a screech as she wipes delicately at her dark sweater.
“There’s no way I got you.”
“There’re a spot of lemon right here.” She points at an invisible dot on her sleeve.
“Well, if it causes you so much stress, you should probably get the lavender.”
Brooke tosses her head back and laughs.
As I'm leaving the bathroom after a shower, I find Mari next to my closet.
“Hey, Mar? What are you doing?”
She straightens, holding up something in her fingers. “I was looking to see if you had that bracelet of Mom’s. I was thinking I might wear it for the wedding.”
“Oh. Um, it’s not in there.”
“What is this?” She lifts something from the jewelry box.
The quarter-carat diamond ring glints in the light.
She gasps. “Nova! You and Brad?! Who else knows?”
A lump rises in my throat.
I can’t tell her it’s the one thing of any value he didn’t take—and only because it was on my finger and that would’ve made it hard to escape without a trace.
But she’s so excited, and for once, I can’t find the words.
“We should call him!” she goes on when I don’t answer.
“No!”
Mari’s eyes widen.
I think she’s going to press the matter, but instead, understanding dawns on her face.
“Because it's my wedding and you don't want to pull focus.” She draws me into a hug. “I know I give you a hard time, but once in a while, you do something grown up like this.”
The truth is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to disappoint my sister and make her think I can’t do anything right.
She leaves, and I drop onto the bed.
Harlan and Mari have been nothing but welcoming. Still, keeping this secret is a weight on my chest that’s growing each day. I feel claustrophobic in this huge house.
I need to do something wild.
To get out of here.
I set the ring back in the jewelry box.
There’s no one I can talk to about this. No one who understands the pressure I’m under and who wouldn’t judge me for what I’m doing.
Except one person.
Clayton Wade might be a superstar, but he also knows my damage.
And he never looked as if he judged me.
With a glance back at the empty doorway, I open my hand and stare at the ten-digit number on it.
I shouldn’t. I’m trying to sort out my life.
Fantasizing about the most famous athlete on my future BIL’s NBA team is not the way to do that.
I bite my cheek and reach for my phone.
My fingers punch in the digits from my palm, and I type out a message.
Delete.
Another one.
Delete.
I try one more time.
Then take a breath and hit Send.