Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Lake
I dart my hand out, catch the camera before it hits the floor.
It’s instinct.
It’s also because I don’t know her, but I saw her bag of belongings, saw that they aren’t expensive.
Her coat has a hole in it near the hem, the laces of her boots have clearly broken and been knotted back together in several places.
The dog has a hundred toys, plenty of food and treats, and what looks to be a brand-new leash.
This camera is expensive.
She must have sacrificed a lot to buy it.
I tighten my fingers around the strap, lift it close enough to cradle carefully against my chest.
I catch a glimpse of the small screen on the back and—
Am utterly arrested.
The detail even on that little viewfinder is immense. It’s just a tree amongst a hundred, a thousand other trees, but…
It’s more.
Fingers wrap around mine, pulling the camera from my grip, snatching away that beauty, slamming me right back into reality.
I want to take it back, to hold it close and stare at it.
Ferret out every tiny detail.
She’s supremely talented. I’m not an artist, not even well-versed in the world of art, but I am successful in what I do because I have a natural ability, because I work hard, and…
because I used to get lost in practice, in the love of the game, in the movement of my hands and feet and body.
Kind of like Nova had been doing when I stormed up to her, interrupting her with her head back, face tilted up to the sky, eyes closed.
In the moment.
Damn.
I ruined that. One glimpse of that photograph and I know.
She’s got talent.
“Nova,” I begin again, stepping a little closer, hating that she steps back, that Steve stands between us, teeth bared.
Clearly, I’ve ruined any progress previously made with the tiny demon.
“We’ll be out of here as soon as I can manage,” she says, sliding back another few feet, turning for her bags that are still sitting on the counter. She sets her camera on the granite, furtively looks back over her shoulder before carefully tucking the camera inside.
Then she folds her jacket, shoves it into the bag as well.
And pauses, head dropping forward, shoulders stiff.
I open my mouth, intending to tell her to hang her coat on the hooks in the hall, but that’s just more stupidity talking—better that she pack up her shit so she’s ready to go, ready to get the fuck out of my house—so I clamp my teeth together, walk to the cabinet next to the fridge, the only one that’s completely full.
Of my quote-unquote shit-tasting vodka.
I personally think that my vodka is fucking delicious, mostly because it doesn’t taste like much, because it goes down smooth with minimal burn but gives maximum buzz.
My asshole teammates, though—
“That’s…” A pause as I glance over my shoulder, surprised she’s talking to me, surprised that she doesn’t seem pissed any longer. “A lot of vodka.”
“Yup,” I say, opening another cabinet, grabbing two glasses and sloshing a couple of fingers into each glass before capping the bottle then passing one over to her. She surprises me again by taking it, throwing it back.
No comment on it being before five.
Nothing about neither of us having eaten anything.
“Ugh,” she says, shuddering. “That’s awful.”
“It’s my vodka,” I tell her, downing my own glass and just as quickly refilling it.
“Yeeeah,” she says, drawing out the word. “I kinda figured that considering I watched you pull it out of your cabinet.”
“No,” I tell her, picking up the bottle and showing her the label. “It’s my vodka.”
Brows furrowing, she glances down then up to me. Then back down. “What do you mean, it’s your vodka?”
“I mean”—I set the bottle down on the countertop, pick up my glass and drain it a second time—“I’m paid to represent it.”
She pauses, head tilting to the side, studying me as though I’m a bug. “So you’re not just a hockey player, you’re also the face of a vodka company?”
I narrow my eyes at her, ask suspiciously, “How do you know I’m a hockey player?”
“I talked to Ella.”
My brows lift in question.
“Knox’s sister who so kindly arranged for me to stay at his—at your—house.”
Oh. Right. “I thought her name was Daniela.”
A short laugh, nothing like the beauty of those giggles earlier. “She hates being called that.”
I frown, but don’t comment further as I throw back the second glass. Probably because I’m about to be stupid by saying, “You’re not pissed about…” I wave a hand at the counter, knowing I’m an idiot to bring up my assholeness, to give her a chance for hysterics and to pick a fight.
She shrugs. “It’s your house.”
My frown deepens. “I’m aware of that.”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me. “You know,” she says, going to the fridge, pulling open the door.
She pulls out a lemon, a ginger beer, one of those clear herb containers—all of which I didn’t buy, all of which must have been in her belongings.
Those go on the counter and she pauses. “I think I saw…” But I don’t hear the rest as she disappears into the pantry, comes back with a jar of honey.
“Cool if I use this?” she asks dismissively, as though she expects me to say no but that it wouldn’t be big deal if I did.
As if she expects me to be an asshole, but that, also, wouldn’t be a big deal.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly, ignoring the pinch in my chest.
Easy to do because it’s a familiar feeling.
Easy to do because I’m curious to what in the fuck-all she’s doing.
She takes her glass to the counter next to the sink, snags mines and opens a cabinet, pulling out a cutting board, snagging a knife out of the rack.
And that’s as much as I see as she gets to work.
I can’t discern much as her back is to me—just her arms moving and then I can smell the lemon along with something earthly, can hear the clink of a spoon, the pop of the can of ginger beer opening, a soft grunt, and then the metal-against-glass sound of the jar of honey opening.
A handful of ice snagged from the freezer, plinking as she drops some into each of the cups.
More movement.
More spoon clinking.
Then she’s turning around, lifting a glass in my direction. “There,” she says. “Try this.”
I frown.
She’s smiling, but her eyes aren’t warm.
“Here,” she says, jiggling the glass a bit, the ice cubes tinkling.
“What is it?” I ask warily.
Another jiggle. “Just drink it.”
“Is it poisoned?”
She laughs and for a moment, I sit in that sound. A pretty, pretty laugh. From a pretty, pretty woman. With just a hint of sadness in her eyes.
I frown.
She moves toward me, presses the glass into my hand.
“It’s just a honey rosemary mule.”