Chapter Two
Honor
I’ve always thought that the pictures of Bodhi Hoffman don’t do him justice in real life.
He has every feature that you read about in romance books—tall, sexy, with bedroom eyes.
. He’s the embodiment of masculinity all wrapped up in hard-earned muscle that a lot of people would want to climb like a tree.
And those eyes. Damn, those eyes. They’re the type of blue you can swim in. They can be used as weapons when they’re pointed in your direction. One look and BAM! You’re drowning.
When my father told me who I’d be meeting during our awkward twenty-minute phone call last night, I had to look up Bodhi Hoffman just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
Logically, I knew that the likelihood of there being two Bodhi Hoffmans was slim to none, but I couldn’t fathom what fate had in store for me.
It’s my luck that the person my father asked to babysit me is the same one I met seven and a half years ago at a random dive bar in Chicago. A man who clearly has no memory of us ever meeting based on his reaction to me at the aquarium. Or, rather, his lack of one.
Granted, I was twenty pounds lighter back then with tanner skin because Max preferred it that way. Plus, my red hair was shorter because that’s the way my husband preferred it. He said when it’s longer it gets in his face at night when we’re trying to sleep.
I don’t necessarily blame Bodhi for not realizing we’ve met once before. It was a long time ago—a different lifetime.
But that doesn’t ease the sting.
Because one night with him at that bar made me realize something huge about myself. Something that I buried deep, deep down instead of acknowledging the truth for the sake of my marriage.
I haven’t allowed myself to think about that night since. It felt too dangerous to constantly recall the hours we spent talking in the corner of the dimly lit room about anything and everything.
The problem with not thinking about something is your brain’s subconscious efforts to think about it more. And considering my father was Bodhi’s coach, and hockey happened to be my ex-husband’s favorite sport, forgetting about that night was far more difficult than it should have been.
Since our first encounter, Bodhi hasn’t changed at all.
His hair may be an inch or two longer, but that’s it.
He’s still arguably the hottest person on my father’s team, which makes me uncomfortable for approximately fifty different reasons.
One through forty-nine of those is thanks to Max Decker, and the fiftieth is the lack of sex I’ve had in…
I don’t even know how long. A year? More than a year?
I can’t trust my hormones around someone who looks like he won a Chris Hemsworth lookalike competition. Two minutes in Bodhi’s company and my brain was firing on all cylinders and desperate to get out before I made a fool of myself for being upset that he had no clue who I was.
So, that’s what I did.
Because coming home was bad enough but being pushed onto someone who not only didn’t want the responsibility of hanging out with me, but who also looked at me like I was a stranger after pouring his heart out to me, was embarrassing.
It’s another reminder that I’m…forgettable.
That everything I set out to do in life failed—helping my mother get better, starting my own business, and my marriage.
Plus, someone who looks like they can rock your world in and out of the bedroom is dangerous enough.
But someone like that who’s also good with kids?
My already-damaged ovaries would never be able to recover from a full day with Bodhi and his daughter.
So, I’m glad I walked away from him before a full-on panic attack ensued.
Puck makes a disgruntled noise as if he knows I’m thinking about Max again. “Don’t judge. A girl can’t forget about a decade with someone overnight just because a hot guy reenters her life.”
The retriever beside me makes another sound that sounds like a withdrawn sigh, but he keeps trotting along the busy sidewalk leading to my best friend’s family business.
Mila’s Bistro is a small Italian restaurant named after my best friend and located on the outskirts of Brooklyn.
Her northern Italian father and her Sicilian mother opened it the year after she was born and saw success almost instantly thanks to their homemade pastas, breads, and unique family recipes that have been passed down through the generations.
I spent a lot of time at Mila’s when my father traveled for work and my mother did whatever the hell she wanted when she didn’t have me.
As soon as I open the door, I’m welcomed by the sweet scent of marinara sauce and garlic. It makes my mouth water.
“Mia figlia!” Isabella, Mila’s mom, greets from behind the counter. My daughter.
The warmth of her bright smile makes me feel just as welcome as I always do, but nothing compares to the tight hug she engulfs me in.
“Hi, Issy,” I say into her shoulder. The woman who’s been more of a mom to me than my own has a solid five inches on my five-three frame.
She smells like fresh bread and olive oil, which means she’s been in the kitchen preparing for the early dinner rush.
“You look good, Honor,” she compliments, pinching my cheeks. “You could use a little color, though. Where have you been hiding? Certainly not anywhere in the sunshine.”
She was used to seeing me with a God-awful spray tan that looked a little too unnatural. I’ll admit, I miss being anything other than pasty these days, but I’m learning to embrace it.
“I’ve been a little preoccupied, but I’ll try absorbing some vitamin C asap. I told Mila that I would visit her today, so I figured I’d surprise her early.”
“Come, come,” she urges, pulling me behind the counter and toward the swinging doors leading into the kitchen.
I tell Puck to sit right outside the room so he doesn’t contaminate whatever they may be cooking.
I don’t want the health inspector to hear they let live animals into the kitchen and ruin the years of hard work they put into this place. “Look who’s here, amore.”
Manuel picks his head up from the meatballs he’s forming into balls. “Ah, piccola luna!” Little moon. He used to tell me I was the light in the darkness—no matter what my mother did to upset me it didn’t stop me from shining bright.
I’m not so sure it’s as fitting these days, but the nickname is still endearing all the same. “Hi, Manny. Is that your famous gravy?”
His eyes light up as he peels his gloves off and tosses them into the garbage. “I love when you speak my language. See, Luce dei miei occhi?” he asks, looking at his wife. “It’s gravy. Not sauce.”
His nickname for her is said with the same amount of love as always.
Light of my eyes. I used to want a love like theirs when I was younger.
What little girl doesn’t dream of someone adoring them through thick and thin?
Marriage was a dream of mine from the time I met Isabella and Manuel.
I’d even put together a scrapbook with Mila on what my dream wedding would be, from the color scheme to the flavor of the cake to the two different dresses I would wear—one for the ceremony, and one for the reception, which would be hosted in the backyard of whatever extravagant house I wound up in.
Inevitably, I did none of that when the day actually came.
Scrapbook forgotten, I let Max’s mother influence what she thought would be best for me and her son.
I should have put my foot down on a few occasions, but I never did.
I’m a people pleaser at heart. Which is why I agreed to having carrot cake with cream cheese frosting even though I hate the flavor.
Just like I agreed to having our ceremony in a church despite not being religious.
The only time I’d ever stepped foot into a church before that day was when Mila dragged me to a haunted house that the Presbyterian church was having.
They passed out big candy bars, so Mila wasn’t going to miss it.
Isabella puts her hands on her hips and directs her forced glare at her husband. “Don’t you start with me today. We’re going to have a long night together if you keep talking that nonsense.”
Both of their Brooklyn accents get thicker when they’re bickering. It’s something I’ve missed about the city over the last few years. “It smells delicious,” I tell Manuel. “Is Mila here? I thought she would have been helping prep for dinner hours.”
Manuel rounds his workspace to drop an arm around my shoulders. He presses a kiss against the top of my head. “It’s good to see you, little moon. Are you going to eat while you’re here? I’m sure Mila told you it’s our specials night, and Isabella made her famous three-cheese eggplant lasagna.”
He knows my two biggest weaknesses are dairy and carbs, which are two things my doctor has continuously told me to avoid since being diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome. But a girl has to live. “I might stay for a bit. My schedule changed a little today.”
I don’t bore them with the admission that I ran from the man I may have harbored a tiny crush on for years.
Crushes are innocent. They don’t mean anything.
But if I told my pseudo parents that I bolted like a coward from said crush, they would question me.
Worse, they would tell me to stop lying to myself.
Because the crush wasn’t tiny at all, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit that out loud.
Mila, though, has no hesitation announcing to her parents that I’m a chicken.
“Her plans changed because she ran away from a sexy hockey player,” Mila interjects, walking into the kitchen with an empty milk crate.
When I helped them at the restaurant ages ago, I’d stock the waiter’s station with fresh glasses, plates, and silverware from the dishwasher using the same crate in her hands.
Isabella perks up, her eyes glistening with mischief. “A hockey player, hmm?”