Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I frowned at her sudden intensity and cast a wary glance across the table at our friends currently arguing over the score of the Bruins game last night. If one of them caught her concerned expression, they’d wonder what was wrong or if I’d said something to piss my girl off. And MK wasn’t my girl anymore.
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Twenty-four hours in Elmwood a month before playoffs…color me suspicious. If I hadn’t just run into Annie at the bakery, I’d have been worried there was something wrong and that you’d hurried home for her sake.”
I rolled my eyes. “You think I’d take a detour at the Black Horse Inn instead of checking on my poor, helpless granny?”
MK smacked my arm. “Watch the sarcasm, or I’ll tell her you called her helpless.”
Ouch. Grams was sharp as a tack, prickly as a porcupine, and definitely wouldn’t take kindly to the notion that she’d slowed down…even though she was in her late eighties.
I snickered. “Grams is fine and I’m fine. I’m just…”
“Homesick?” she supplied.
“Something like that.”
Okay, so yes, I was homesick.
Really fucking homesick.
MK smiled sweetly and rested her head against my arm. “Ya big ol’ marshmallow. I bought my plane ticket for the Seattle game next month. My dad and my uncles are going too. Uncle Vinnie may be rooting for the bad guys, but since he played for them for forever, I think we need to give him a hall pass.”
I took a swig of beer and cast my gaze around the bar, aware that Niall and Abe had rejoined the conversation while Micah was texting his girlfriend.
“Seattle’s tougher now than they used to be,” Abe chimed in. “They have that big guy…what’s his name? Grotski or Gorski or…”
“Not even close. Kawalski. I know this shit,” Niall corrected confidently.
Micah looked up from his cell. “Kawalski plays for Montreal.”
“Chicago,” MK said. “You’re thinking of the hottie with the tats and…”
I tuned them out, basking in the nostalgic sweet vibes of familiar voices and welcoming spaces. Some might say that spending half a day traveling wasn’t a great use of free time, but they’d be wrong. A quick infusion of small-town life where everything and everyone was recognizable was good for the soul.
Like now…
Our old teammate, Harry Cromer’s parents were at the bar chatting with Mrs. Sullivan, our eleventh-grade biology teacher, and her husband. The Kinneys were at the high table closer to the window and a couple a grade ahead of us in high school were canoodling in one of the booths. I couldn’t remember if they’d gotten married. I couldn’t remember their names, either. Jason and Abby or maybe Jack and Alicia? Didn’t matter. It was just…cool.
I was suddenly very happy about my impulsive detour home. I’d needed this more than I’d realized.
The conversation at our table devolved into good-natured taunting about “cute hockey players.” I chuckled softly, nodding hello to one of Grams’s neighbors as I twisted in my seat to add my two cents—just as the door swung open and a tall dude wearing a cowboy hat strode inside, trailing a blast of cold winter air behind him.
That was the second my whole life changed.
Dramatic, right? But also true.
I didn’t know that, of course. Not really. But the atmosphere in the bar suddenly felt charged. I was aware of his presence the way I was aware on the ice, surrounded and battling from the boards with a puck at the end of my stick.
This was different. It was visceral awareness mixed with the kind of attraction I’d staved off for years.
And my God, the guy was a fucking cowboy.
The whole bar went silent for a beat. In fact, his reception was the exact opposite of the frenzied welcome I’d received half an hour ago. No one was rude, per se. Elmwood prided itself on being a friendly haven. The stares and whispers were a product of bald-faced curiosity.
See, no one wore cowboy hats around here. Not like it never happened, but Elmwood was more of a beanie or baseball cap kind of town. Trust me on that one. I had a hat fetish. And a cowboy fetish.
On the right guy, or girl—cowboy hats were hot as fuck. So yeah…the stranger had my attention.
Other than the hat and his expensive-looking boots, he sort of blended in with his puffy winter jacket, green plaid flannel, and standard-issue 501s that accentuated his package to perfection.
Eyes up, asshole.
I made myself glance away, but it wasn’t easy.
Something in the way he moved, slow and sure with just the right amount of swagger, set him apart. He was tall and thick—built like a brick house…or an athlete. I assumed he had brown hair based on his end-of-day scruff, and that he was at least a few years older than me, but there was no way of knowing without getting closer. And I definitely wouldn’t be doing that.