Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Harper
I look over his shoulder, and he chuckles.
“Don’t say my pot washing skills are as bad as my knife skills.”
My lips twitch. “Is this where I say you missed a spot?”
He chuckles and goes back to scrubbing and I rest my cheek against the outside of his shoulder, unabashedly soaking in his strength as he does the dishes.
We’ve spent time together every day since Luna had her baby, though not the nights together—or at least, not the parts of the night my body is desperate for.
No naked fun time.
Oh, there’s been lots of kissing over the last few weeks and plenty of hugging, of time spent like this, our bodies pressed close together.
Here in my kitchen, at my apartment watching TV while I attempted to crochet or worked on my planner or sent out contracts and created menus and ordered food.
At his place, meeting up before or after he worked out with his trainer or the Grizzlies’ strength coach or got on the ice for practice, including doing another session with Rosalie.
Rosalie—who I met and is perfectly lovely. She even offered to teach me how to skate.
So, even though I kind of hate her for being so graceful and pretty and beyond nice, I’m looking forward to getting to know her better.
But all of that has served as a reminder that the season will be starting soon and I’m getting a little scared.
What’s going to happen when Leo’s off traveling?
And the baby is due in January, which isn’t ideal.
His season will be gearing up, and the team will be prepping for the playoff push and…
That’s not really what I’m worried about.
There’s still a not-small part of me that’s worried he’s going to leave again. That he’ll have the distraction of hockey and forget about me and—
He kisses my temple. “Lost in your thoughts?” he asks softly.
I realize he’s finished with the dishes, has stacked them on the drying rack. “Yeah,” I say, lifting my head from his shoulder. “Sorry.”
Turning, he dries his hands on a towel, then tosses it aside so he can cup my face.
God, I love when he does that.
Love how it merges our gazes together. How, in a single heartbeat, the universe is reduced to just him and me.
His eyes search mine, and it’s as though he can see every single thought in my brain.
I brace.
But he just murmurs, “Take your time, Mama.”
My heart spasms, and I relax against him again.
God, I really like this man.
He presses his lips to my forehead, asks, “Feel up for a small surprise?”
“A surprise?” I ask eagerly.
He nods, mouth curving into a smile. “Just a little one before life gets really crazy.” My stomach rumbles before I can reply, and he grins. “The surprise comes with food.”
“Then I’m definitely in.”
“Good. I’ll get the trash”—he’s taken it out for me every time he’s been here since that awful day more than a month ago—“you get your stuff.”
“Deal,” I say and make short work of using the bathroom and washing my hands, but just as I step back out into the kitchen an odd sensation fills my stomach, and I freeze.
“Harp?”
I press my hand to my stomach, trying to understand what I’m feeling.
It’s…unlike anything that I’ve ever felt before.
A fluttering or a pulse, almost like a muscle twitching.
“Baby,” Leo says, coming closer, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Are you okay?”
“I—” The fluttering increases in intensity, as though Leo coming close turned up the volume…or maybe the sound of Leo’s voice.
“Oh,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. “Oh,” I say again, one tear slipping free as I turn to face him, my palm flush against my stomach. “The baby.”
His eyes go wide in alarm.
“I can feel her,” I explain quickly. “She’s moving.”
The concern leaves his features. “Really?” he asks excitedly. “Can I try?”
Heart rolling over in my chest, I nod and take his hand, pressing it to my belly. “There,” I say when the fluttering picks up. “Do you feel her?”
He frowns, as though concentrating, pressing a little harder. Then he sighs and shakes his head.
“It’s still early yet,” I murmur.
“Yeah.” He touches my cheek. “What does it feel like to you? Weird?”
“A little,” I admit. “It’s like…a flutter, like someone is tickling me from the inside out.”
That has his lips curving. “Well, that’s rude.”
I giggle. “I’ll take tickling over puking.”
“Fair enough.”
We stand there, bodies pressed close for a few more moments. Then, as though as one, we pull back, Leo taking my hand. “Ready?”
I nod, snag my purse and light jacket from the hooks.
He takes the former from me, helps me into the latter, and then we’re walking to his car.
“Are you going to tell me what this surprise is?”
A shake of his head.
But we don’t stop at his car. We keep walking to the park just on the other side of the lot, the trees alight from the fading sunshine.
“The sunset is beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, squeezing my hand and drawing me down the paved path.
I’m beyond curious as to where we’re going, but I decide to go along for the ride.
And it doesn’t take long for him to reveal his surprise.
The blanket is spread out on the grass, battery-powered lanterns positioned strategically to show off the picnic he has laid out for us.
Or maybe not all him.
“Is that—” I break off with a surprised chuckle when I see the big, bearded hockey player bolt for the cover of the trees. “Thanks, Smitty!” I call.
His head pops out of the trunks. “Anything when love is on the line!” he calls back.
Leo curses softly but just draws me over to the blanket.
I go because I want to…and maybe also because I’m absorbing Smitty’s words.
Accepting the most important one.
Love.
As in, I’m falling in love with number ninety.
Or maybe…I’ve already fallen.
“My mom called me again today,” he says as he quietly opens a container of food that my nose tells me—my stomach rumbles again—is from Nonna’s. “Chicken parm,” he says, naming the entrée I haven’t been able to get enough of lately. “But I also have ziti, if that sounds better.”
I pause, considering.
“Or we can go half and half,” he offers.
Oh, that’s an excellent idea.
He grins before I can give voice to that. “Half and half it is.” He passes me the chicken parmesan, opens up the ziti and starts eating.
“Your mom called?” I ask.
A nod. Then he exhales. “Yeah. She’s getting divorced again.”
I reach over, settle my hand on his knee. “Why do I think it’s more complicated than that?”
“Because she cheated on her soon-to-be-ex-husband with my dad.”
My mouth falls open.
“Yup,” he mutters, setting the food aside. “It’s not my problem, I know that. Hell, I barely talk to them as it is.”
I’ve seen that.
They call or text, but he doesn’t often pick up.
And based on the very few and very short conversations—their voices shrill and loud and angry—I don’t blame him.
“Do they visit?”
“God, no,” he says quickly. “And I don’t want them to.
I’ll stop by once or twice a season when a game is close enough and the timing works out.
But we don’t do holidays together or birthdays or anything that normal families do.
” He sighs, picks up the pasta again. “Honestly, I stopped calling them years ago now, and they only reach out when something’s wrong or they’re upset or they want to bitch about each other.
” He groans. “God, I can only imagine what’s going to happen now with them back together. ”
“Do you think,” I say carefully, “that you should block them?”
“I’ve thought about it. So many times. But…”
“Guilt,” I finish for him.
“Lame, huh?” he jokes halfheartedly.
“Pretty much. But I only say that because I’m in the same boat.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad isn’t blocked in my phone.” I sigh.
“It seems too final, somehow. Like saying goodbye to something I’m not ready for.
That’s lame. My dad flitted in and out of my life so many times I have a hard time trusting people.
He rarely paid child support, which meant Mom had to work two or three jobs sometimes.
And I honestly think that contributed to her death—not enough sleep, not enough good food, health insurance that wasn’t consistent and doctor’s appointments that were few and far between.
If we weren’t struggling so much, I think she would have had time to go to the doctor sooner and maybe they would have caught the cancer earlier.
” My voice breaks. “Maybe she would have still been here.”
“Aw, baby,” he says.
“Sorry.” I wave a hand in front of my face, blink back the tears. “I wasn’t trying to hijack the conversation.”
“I know.” He touches my cheek. “And you aren’t.”
“But—”
“Will you tell me about her?”
“What?”
“Will you tell me about your mom?”
My throat goes tight, tears stinging my eyes again. Because I’m so damned glad I got to meet this Leo.
Because I’m…
So freaking gone for him.
He waits patiently for me to get my head together and then I tell him all about my mom—how being fifteen minutes early was on time, how she made the best cinnamon rolls on the planet, how she always found time to read to me.
I tell him how she helped me make flash cards for a big test in high school and how she picked up extra shifts as a cleaner so I could get the prom dress I dreamed of.
I tell him how she never, not for one moment, ever made me feel like I was unwelcome.
Something I know that Leo didn’t have.
So, as we finish our main courses, I ask him about hockey and his journey to the NHL.
I learn that he did have some good people in his life with his billet families, one of whom still comes to his games every time he plays against Minnesota.
I learn that his other teams weren’t like the Grizzlies, that he and Smitty, Aiden and Gray, Sawyer and Ryan are building something special here—though, then again, I already knew that, didn’t I?
What with Luna and Faye and Kailey and, now, Lainey.
And me.
I’m part of it too.
Along with Reese and Ollie and…Skye or Reed.
My heart so damned full, I’m glad when he changes the topic to funny locker room antics, this one surrounding Aiden’s lucky pregame snack of a gas station hot dog and a loose ketchup lid.
We laugh through dessert, linger as the sun fades, and when my yawns come fast and furious, we pack up, walking lazily back to the car.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Anything for you.”
The drive home is short, but I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until he’s lifting me out of the car.
“I can…”
“Hush,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”
He does.
Firmly.
So, I just rest my head on his shoulder, let him carry me into my bedroom.
But when he tucks me in and starts to leave, telling me he’ll see me tomorrow, I call out his name.
“Yeah, Mama?” he asks, crouching back down and stroking his fingers through my hair.
And God, I love his touch, love the way he calls me that, love…
Him.
“Will you stay?”
His eyes study mine and I hold my breath.
Then his mouth hitches up and his eyes warm.
“Yeah, baby. I’ll stay.”