Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
Nova
I stand at the kitchen window, cup of coffee in my hand, watching the plows making their way up and down the street.
It’s not snowing.
In fact, it’s been almost twenty-four hours without the fluffy white stuff falling from the sky.
Which is why the plows are out, I suppose.
And why I need to get back to my life.
Lake’s in the shower, which I think is a little weird considering he’s going to the gym and then practice—why shower when he’s going to get hot and sweaty?
But I’m not the professional hockey player, and he says it’s part of his routine.
Plus, I need coffee.
And maybe a little distance.
Because I’m leaving today.
Because…Snowmageddon is coming to an end and the roads are being cleared and I have no reason to stay.
We’ve had our fun.
Now I need to get on with my life.
Figure out what I want to do for work. Figure out where I want to live—because it’s definitely not going to be that apartment in San Francisco.
Luckily, I never signed a lease with George and I have all of my stuff.
No lie, that hurts—I picked him. He betrayed me with Ashley—who got the jewelry she wanted, and…
I haven’t heard a word from either of them.
Done with me as I am with them.
Perfect.
It’s better than going backward.
It still stings, I just don’t have the energy to focus on it. Maybe I’ll find some place to rent here in the Sierras, some place with snow and trees and maybe a frozen pond. Maybe I’ll find this same sense of peace there.
Maybe I’ll learn how to skate and—
No, it’s better I move on.
This time has been…perfect. Better than I ever expected. Peaceful and lovely and filled with plenty of orgasms and enough camaraderie that I know I’ll look back at Lake fondly.
But…it’s time.
Sighing, I glance down at Steve, his brace clunky and heavy, but he’s been leaving it alone for the most part, and since he’s moving around better, he’s been getting up to his old mischief again.
None the worse for wear.
Thank God.
I do think he’ll miss Lake though.
“It’ll be fun,” I tell him. “Just me and you, bud,” I say. “Like always.” On the road, finding where we fit, a new place to shoot. That bright, shiny future.
I reach into my pocket, the bumpy wings of the butterfly charm beneath my fingertips.
And…breaking out of my cocoon.
But is it if I’m just blindly moving forward again?
I push that thought away. I’ll get there, one step at a time.
And anyway, Lake and I had our fun. We made our peace and I enjoyed hanging here with him.
I owe him a couple dozen honey rosemary mules (which is why I’m making a new batch of the rosemary simple syrup to leave with him). But he needs to have his house back.
Which is why I finish folding the load of laundry I threw in the night before and start tucking it into my duffle, along with my camera and my laptop and my phone charger.
I’m corralling Steve’s copious amounts of toys when Lake pads down the hall, hair still wet from his shower.
He stops next to the island, and I see that he’s frowning when I finally get my fingers around the stuffed bunny and crawl out from beneath the countertop.
“Packing up,” I say in response to that scowl, shoving it into Steve’s tote bag before rounding the island and heading back to the stove, stirring the simple syrup. Most of the water has boiled off and the room is filled with the earthy scent of rosemary.
It’s all but done.
I flick the knob, turn off the heat.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I snag a mug and rotate back to face him, brows drawing together when I see he hasn’t moved from the island, and that…
His expression has become thunderous.
“No?” I ask, setting the mug I grabbed back down on the counter. “Is no caffeine another pre hockey ritual?”
He scowls. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I slide my eyes from side to side. “Umm…pre hockey rituals?”
Lightning and thunder in his hazel eyes, and I freeze when I find him suddenly in my face. “Packing, butterfly. What the fuck?”
I exhale. “I mean…the roads are open and you need to get back to your life, your routine.”
Flashing hazel eyes. “You got a place?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do. You. Have. A. Place. To. Go?”
My lungs inflate on a rush. “I mean, not yet,” I say after I exhale, after I summon a smile. “But I’m good at figuring that out as I move. And I’m really good at landing on my feet no matter what.”
“So everything you said last night really was bullshit.” He shakes his head, reaches past me for the mug and fills it with coffee.
“What—?” I rock back on my heels, rubbing a hand over my chest, my heart convulsing beneath. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” he snaps. “Last night you said you run off without enjoying the present.” I freeze. “You said that you want to do better. But here you are, running forward again, no plan in place.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want your house back.”
Something crosses his face, an emotion I can’t identify, there and gone before I can process it.
“I’m not even here half the time,” he grits out.
“I don’t need my house back. But if you’re too fucking scared to stay, or in such a hurry to leave, or, hell, too proud to accept a hand up, then just go.
Flit off, fly around, keep doing the same shit over and over again.
” He turns away, mug in hand. “I need to get to practice. Tell the demon dog bye from me.”
“Why are you being such an asshole?” I snap.
He turns back, lifts his brows. “Why are you such a coward?”
Those butterflies in my belly take flight, whirling around and making me feel sick. “Fuck you.”
He salutes me with his mug. “Drive safe. Try not to end up in another snowbank.”
Irritation bubbles over and I march up to him, taking the mug right out of his hand and dumping it down the drain. “That coffee is mine. This”—I go to the stove, point at the pot—“rosemary simple syrup I was making for you is mine. Those cookies I made for you last night are mine. The—”
All of a sudden, he’s in my space again, his face mere millimeters from mine.
“I don’t want the cookies or the coffee or the simple syrup.
” He kisses me, deeply, intensely, and with lots and lots of tongue.
So much that I waver when he finally lets me go, lungs heavy and struggling to draw in enough air.
“I just want you here,” he says, fingers in my hair, palm pressed to the hinge of my jaw.
“ I want you to stay and enjoy the present. I want you to be right here in my house when that couch I bought comes, so I can fuck you on it. I want you here until Steve is better.” His thumb presses to my bottom lip.
“I want you to stay until you’re ready to go. ”
My heart is pounding.
Those butterflies flutter in my belly, wings creating a ruckus. “You do?”
His forehead drops to mine, and he seems to be warring with himself.
But then he sighs, fingers tightening in my hair.
“Yeah, butterfly, I do.”