Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
A kernel of guilt wiggles through me that she’s done this on her own. Sure, I’m organized, so on the one hand, it’s like father, like daughter. But is she growing up too fast? It’s one thing for her to use her chip-off-the-old-block organizational skills to manage her homework; it’s another to use them to manage me. And evidently, the bakery.
“You made a timeline for the bakery?” I ask as I get a good look at her screen.
She gives me a stare that I translate as Obviously. “How else would you know what you need to do and when you need to do it? I keep our calendar. It’s good training for me. Organization is important for any scientist.”
She’s not wrong, and I suppose I don’t need to feel guilty. Independence is a good thing, right? Right.
“Okay, hit me,” I say as we pass the Ferry Building. I force my gaze away from it and my thoughts away from last week’s white-hot kiss there with my best friend’s sister. The woman who has now—it’s still a little surreal—become my new business partner.
I’m still wrapping my head around how she went from being my friend’s little sister to a woman I impulsively kissed one afternoon, contemplated dating during the brief span of a hockey game, then somehow went into business with the very next day.
I haven’t seen Mabel since Sunday. I was out of town for a quick road trip—won one, lost one—but we have texted, sometimes even intentionally. Maybe when I see her tomorrow to go over the plans and the name and the menu, I’ll have forgotten how she felt in my arms.
I kick the thoughts from my mind and focus on my kid, who reviews the schedule as we walk past the statue of a giant, fearsome fox outside our arena.
“And then the garage doors will be installed,” she says.
The sound of sneakers slapping against stone grows louder. Miller jogs up beside us, barreling right into the conversation like he belongs there—that’s the goalie’s style. He’s a Golden Retriever off the ice, a Pit Bull on it. “You getting a new garage? Please tell me we’re gonna put a home theater in it, with a big screen and a popcorn machine.” He grins at Charlotte, giving a hopeful thumbs-up. He’s like a big kid himself.
She scrunches her brow, no doubt picturing the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe we should do our garage too, Dad? A movie theater would be fun for my documentaries.”
Miller chuckles. “Of course that’s what you want to watch.”
I ruffle Charlotte’s hair. “And we like that.”
“I know. Trust me, I wish Hayden wanted to watch, I dunno, science docs,” Miller adds, a note of longing in his voice as he talks about the teenage brother he’s been raising.
As we near the main doors to the arena, Charlotte turns to my teammate, waggling her phone. “You can tell Hayden to text me if he needs any help organizing his sessions with his band.”
Miller gives her a don’t go there look. “You are not gonna encourage my little brother to spend even more time shredding his guitar.”
“Come on,” I say to Miller, smacking his arm. “What’s the big deal? He’s in high school.”
“And I need him to focus on homework, not being a rock star in his mind.” Miller turns to Charlotte and rubs his hands. “So, is it a movie theater? I might come over and catch up on some thrillers.”
“By all means, make yourself at home,” I say dryly, though of course Miller needs no encouragement on that front. He’s like Seven. Sometimes he appears on my doorstep at mealtime. Or snack time. Or movie time.
Charlotte laughs, shaking her head. “No, the garage is for the bakery my dad is opening.”
It’s as if someone muted the soundtrack of our day. Miller jerks his gaze to me, eyes wide and full of questions. “Well, this just got real interesting.”
I wince, scratching my jaw. Yeah, I haven’t told my friends. Not sure why. Maybe because it still feels personal? Because there’s a part of me that wonders if they can detect that I have a thing for Mabel? Or because I worry they’ll say I’m sucking up to the acting GM by helping his sister? It could be all of the above.
Charlotte purses her lips. “Oops. You haven’t told your teammates yet? You’re going to have to let me know about these things for my task management list, Dad. I have them down to help us with the display case set-up and moving furniture and tables in.”
Miller’s stare sharpens. “Spill.”
Thankfully, Coach Ahmed is working us hard on skating drills. Explosive starts, quick turns, and never-ending sprints. You can’t talk during drills this intense or, honestly, think about much either. That’s good, since I don’t want to do a damn thing but play at the top of my game while I still can, and that means I need to do better this year than I ever have before. I race past the blue line, stick in hand, legs burning, blades scraping across the ice.