Poke Check (Skate Me Home #3)

Chapter 1

NAOMI

Naomi Piccolo adds ‘skipping lunch’ to the running list of poor life choices she’s made today. After a cramped flight to Hartford, she is ninety percent hunger, ten percent stress, and one hundred percent regretting her choice of footwear.

The lobby of the Marriott smells faintly of lemon cleaner and stale coffee, which only makes her stomach growl louder.

She shifts on her too-high heels while waiting at the front desk, trying not to chew her lip to bits.

She’s meant to be behaving like a composed, highly qualified marketing consultant, not a feral raccoon.

Beside her, Mila looks criminally put together, as usual. Blonde hair sleek, blazer crisp, smile ready to charm. Naomi loves her work best friend, but right now she wants to rip her head off.

“Naomi,” Mila says, sliding her side-eye. “What’s up with you?”

“I’m fine,” Naomi mutters, tapping her nails against the counter like she’s Morse-coding feed me.

“You don’t sound fine.”

Naomi exhales through her nose. “Maybe because I’m starving. There was no vegan food on the plane, and—” she presses a hand to her forehead, “I forgot the bag at home.”

Mila gasps. “Not the snack bag.”

“Yes. The snack bag.” Naomi hunches over in misery. “It’s somewhere in my kitchen right now, laughing at me.”

The desk attendant clears his throat, handing them each a keycard, and Naomi doesn’t miss how his gaze lingers—appreciative, starstruck—on Mila.

Always Mila. Men look at her like that, with open admiration, borderline leering.

Naomi? She might as well be the coat check girl.

Too small, too sharp, too much. She knows it shouldn’t bother her, but on an empty stomach, every insecurity has teeth.

Mila, oblivious or simply used to it, leans in with her signature warm smile. “Is there somewhere nearby we can eat vegan?”

The young man straightens, clearly pleased to have her attention. “There’s a place called Spice World. Vegan bakery and café. Head down Columbus and turn right on Arch Street, about ten minutes from here. They close soon, though.”

“Spice World,” Naomi repeats. She snatches up the keycard and jams it in her purse.

Sweet, sweet salvation.

Mila tilts her head, amused. “You okay to run over there by yourself? I’d go with you, but I need to prep for tomorrow.”

“Go and prep.” She waves her off. “I’ll join you after I get something to eat.”

Naomi can’t stop the little spark of excitement underneath the hanger.

She’s traveling. For work. For a new client.

Not just any client either—the Hartford Whalers, a pro hockey team.

Mila landed the account and, miracle of miracles, asked Naomi to come along.

Naomi, who usually gets left behind in the Toronto office, grinding through the spreadsheets of campaign metrics while Mila does all the fun, flashy travel.

Mila squeezes her arm. “Don’t trip.”

Which is exactly what Naomi is in danger of as she bolts out the door, teetering down the Hartford sidewalk like a baby deer. Why, why, had she thought four-inch heels were necessary for the flight from Toronto to Hartford?

Her stomach is practically eating itself as she speed-walks past office buildings and shuttered shops, clutching her purse. Work looms large on the edges of her mind.

Tomorrow will be her first time coordinating a major event. Technically it’s Mila’s event—but this is Naomi’s chance to prove she’s more than a reliable sidekick. If she pulls it off, she might get the chance to lead one of these herself. No pressure or anything.

She blows out a breath, trying to dispel the nerves fizzing from her head down to her toes.

This is exactly what she wants—traveling for work, getting her hands dirty on real projects.

And doing it alongside Mila, who actually believes in her, pushes her, and doesn’t treat her like a pint-sized intern who needs bubble wrap? Dream scenario.

But imposter syndrome has a way of crawling into her subconscious, whispering lies in her ear. That she’s tagging along. That any minute now someone’s going to realize she’s not qualified. That she’s too loud, too messy to be in front of clients.

No one’s said any of that, of course. Mila keeps handing her more responsibility, trusts her with real tasks, and Naomi’s nailed every single one. Still, the doubt lingers, sharp-edged and stupid. What if she doesn’t measure up?

And right now? She can’t measure up to anything if she passes out on the sidewalk.

“Spice World,” she mutters, spotting the café sign down the block. “Please be open.”

The bell above the door jingles as Naomi hurls herself inside.

Victory tastes of linoleum floors and faint curry spices in the air.

Her eyes laser in on the display case. It’s nearly empty, cleared out for the night.

Two lonely sandwiches sit behind the glass.

Scratch that. Two perfect, shining beacons of vegan salvation sit on little trays, stacked like a divine reward for surviving a flight with no legroom, a seatmate who used the armrest and manspread into her personal space, and a dinner comprised of six pretzels.

“Oh thank God,” she mutters under her breath, nearly falling to her knees with gratitude.

The young woman behind the counter looks bored out of her mind, half-heartedly restocking napkins. Naomi doesn’t care. She strides to the register with conviction

“I’ll take one of those sandwiches. Actually, no—both.” She slaps her card on the counter for emphasis.

Then the bell jingles again.

The cashier’s bored expression perks up like a wilted houseplant watered for the first time in weeks as she looks over Naomi’s shoulder.

Naomi looks.

And—

Oh.

The man ducking through the doorway is tall.

Not normal tall. Not “ohmigod did you play basketball in high school” tall.

He’s tall in a way that should come with a warning label and structural permits.

Six-foot-six, easy. Broad shoulders under a slouchy hoodie, beanie pulled low, tattoos curling along his forearm and down the back of one massive hand.

He oozes don’t-talk-to-me energy that clears a ten-foot radius. Not rude—just entirely uninterested. His blue eyes catch hers and it’s like being pinned in place by a blast of Arctic wind.

Her mouth waters for an entirely different reason now, but her stomach growls, dragging her focus back to the mission at hand.

She turns back to the cashier and points at the sandwiches. “Those please.”

The young woman winces, giving Naomi an apologetic little head tilt that does nothing to soothe the sudden wave of dread crashing over her.

“Oh, sorry. Those are for him.”

Naomi blinks, her brain scrambling to find the step she must have missed. She can't have heard that correctly. The cashier just told her that those sandwiches, her only hope for sustenance, belong to the man who arrived after her.

“I’m sorry?”

The cashier shrugs as if she’s explained the law of the land. “He’s a regular. We always save him two.”

She gestures with a nod—and Naomi turns slowly. She has to tilt her head back. And back. Her neck cracks in protest. At this point, she’s basically staring at the ceiling tiles.

He’s staring down at her. Expression blank. Eyes annoyingly blue.

“Excuse me?” she says, voice pitching higher. “I was here first.”

The man—the Sandwich Swindler, as she will now refer to him in her memoir—just stares. No apology. No emotion of any kind.

Naomi casts her gaze around the empty café, searching witnesses to this blatant food theft and who could validate her growing sense of betrayal.

The little café is cozy, with exposed brick walls and faded leather chairs arranged near the front windows.

The chalkboard menu has been half-erased, its daily specials smudged to ghostly outlines.

Chairs are flipped onto tables, and the display case is bare, save for a few sad crumbs that only make her feel more robbed.

She turns back to the cashier, trying to keep her face even, neutral. It’s not working. The irritation’s bubbling up fast and hot in her chest, and though she’s aiming for composed, she’s pretty sure her voice comes out shrill.

“He doesn’t need both sandwiches. Look at him. If he eats any more he won’t fit inside.”

Behind her, a deep, lazy voice rumbles. “Wouldn’t want to get any taller. Ceiling fans are already dangerous.”

She whirls toward him. “What?”

“Blades,” he says, like it’s obvious. He lifts his gaze toward the ceiling. “They’re everywhere. Gotta stay alert.”

Is this real life?

She looks back at the cashier, who’s wrapping the sandwiches at a glacial pace, unmoved by Naomi’s slow emotional collapse.

“Seriously? I’m about to faint. Make an exception. Please. I’m dying.”

The cashier shrugs, unmoved. It’s happening. Naomi can see it—her last shred of sanity slipping away with those sandwiches.

She rounds on him again. “If you had an iota of human decency, you’d share one.”

“Man’s gotta eat.”

“Besides,” he adds, stepping towards the counter, “you couldn’t handle one of these anyway.”

Her eyes narrow. “What does that even mean?”

“Looks heavy,” he says casually. “Might tip you over.”

Naomi sputters. “Are you kidding me?”

“Not really. Physics.”

She makes a strangled noise, something between a scoff and a growl. She’s seconds from launching herself across the counter when survival instincts kick in and make her take a step back.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, shaking her head and retreating before she commits an actual crime. “Take them. I hope you choke.”

He gives a solemn nod. “Unlikely. I chew thoroughly.”

Naomi’s jaw drops again. She cannot. She physically cannot.

The sandwiches disappear into a paper bag, and the cashier hands it to the Swindler, oblivious to Naomi’s murdery energy.

He turns toward the door, breezing past her without a single ounce of shame.

Then he glances back with a smirk.

“Have a nice evening.”