Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“How did I not know this? Why didn’t you ever tell me you had cool friends, Miller?” I demand.
“Maybe I was keeping it a secret.”
Anna laughs, then says to me, “Miller likes to be mysterious sometimes.” She leans in closer and gives me a conspiratorial whisper, like we’ve been friends forever. “He thinks that’s part of his whole goalie mystique.”
“Hey now,” he says, inching closer to her. “I don’t have a goalie mystique—I am the goalie mystique!”
She pats his arm, laughing. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
It’s friendly, the way she treats him, but when Miller glances down at his arm like he’s treasuring the spot where she touched him, my romance instincts tingle. No, I’m not dying to set them up on a date. But I’ve got a feeling Miller has a crush on his longtime friend.
But that’s a thought I need to tuck aside for now. I spot the head of the charity striding into the arena with her VIP donors.
“All right. It’s showtime,” I say.
45
HOPTIMISM AND OPTIMISM
REMY
On the tour, Miller charms the donors with his fabricated ghost stories in the Golden State Fox’s locker room, then his tales of a haunted equipment room before ending the tour with everyone’s favorite part—a photo opportunity on the Zamboni.
He motions for Anna to join him at the end, then slips his arm around her waist as I snap a pic, all while smiling like I know what’s coming next for them.
When the tour is over I thank everyone and wish both Miller and Anna good luck for the game tonight. Anna will be commentating in the booth, and Miller on the ice.
I head upstairs to my cubicle to finish a few things before I slip away for the spa day. I’ll miss seeing the game this evening. Part of me feels a tug in my chest at the thought of missing it, even though I had never planned on going to it. But there’s no way I’m missing the spa session, especially since I’ve got this jersey to show off.
When I reach my cubicle, Devon’s setting a small ruby red bag on my desk with a ribbon around the handles.
“Oh, you got another gift. Is this from your boyfriend?” she asks as she spins around.
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling tingly and giddy all over, and I sure hope it’s from him.
But I also feel a little queasy when she says boyfriend. At the way the word sticks in my chest, like heartburn.
At the way it still feels like a lie not only on my tongue but on other people’s tongues, especially as Devon adds, “I bet it is, and your boyfriend is seriously a king.”
“He is,” I say.
When she spins around and leaves, I swallow down the guilt. One more day. One more day and we’ll figure it out.
For now, I rip open the bag and gasp when I see a midnight blue velvet box I recognize instantly. It’s from Victoire.
I tug it out, along with a card on it.
It just says—It should fit you now.
My breath catches. With excited fingers I click it open then. My heart is beating so fast. This feels so unreal as I stare at the elegant timepiece that I tried on at Lake’s apartment.
I can’t believe this. He’s giving me the watch I modeled for him, and it’s just for me. He had it resized…for me.
Delicately, I tug it out of the box, and I’m about to slide it on my wrist when I spot something on the back. It’s been engraved with the words For you.
I clutch it tight for several seconds as something dangerously close to happiness floods my chest. Not for the watch. But the gesture. Then, I click it open and slide it on. It fits perfectly, and I can hear what he said the day I tried it—it’s touching you now.
Like he wanted to. Like he did. Like he’s still doing. And in ways I never saw coming but now desperately want.
* * *
For the record, I am a spa kind of person. As soon as the scent of lavender and the sound of soft waves greets me when I swing open the door of DeLaTour Spa in Russian Hill, my muscles relax. My mind breathes more regularly.
Maybe I’ve always needed the mandatory calm that the permission slip of a place like this affords.
Sure, I need to be on as the mistress of spa ceremonies this afternoon—maid-of-honor duties are no joke—but I also get a massage and facial for it.
That’s winning.
I’m fifteen minutes early, so I head straight to the counter and tell the attendant I’m checking in for the Hatmaker party.
When that’s done, I wander around the entryway, soaking in the ambiance of the plants hanging over the front counter, the photos of serene beaches, the soothing scents of the candles, lotions, and potions.