I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) - Pippa Grant Page 0,31
know it would be so crowded.”
“When’s the last time you even saw this friend? I’ve never heard of her before.”
“A month ago, for lunch, which we do regularly, and you haven’t heard of her before because you and I aren’t besties and I don’t tell you everything.”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
What is it about frustrated men in suits that makes my nipples perk up?
The line moves, and I shuffle with it.
Tyler shuffles with me.
“I thought you ghosted me,” I whisper.
“What?”
“After that…thing…we did at that club. I thought you ghosted me. I know I said I did it to you, but…that wasn’t my intention. Not at first. I thought you’d call me, but you didn’t. I know you don’t do relationships, but we were friends, Tyler. We were friends, and you didn’t call.”
He squeezes his eyes shut again and doesn’t answer again.
So that either means bad timing with telling him, or it means he did ghost me.
Whatever.
It’s not important.
What’s important is being here for Veda.
I pull out my phone and send her a text letting her know I’m here. Then I nudge Tyler like I didn’t just confess to being incredibly insecure.
Again.
“While we’re waiting, you should check on your brother-in-law.”
He mutters something to himself.
Pretty sure it’s about how he should’ve known better. Or that if I’m involved, of course this will be a disaster.
“At least you don’t have to worry about any of my relatives asking when we’re getting married,” I whisper.
“What about your friend?”
“She knows me too well to think you’re anything other than a very kind person doing me a favor.”
He stares me down.
I squirm.
I’ve seen Tyler Jaeger laugh. I’ve seen him smirk. I’ve seen him flirt. All of them with me, though the flirting, I’m positive, was merely a kindness and not an actual attraction, like the sex in the club’s fridge was a thing to do that was easy and convenient, and it didn’t mean anything.
But until this moment, I haven’t actually understood why he’s such a great hockey player.
Being on the receiving end of that intense, focused, no-nonsense glare is making me wish I were padded up for battle.
Or possibly in a different state.
This is even more intense than the glare he gave me in the car.
“Why are you friends with people who don’t think you’re attractive enough to bring a real date to a funeral?”
My phone buzzes. “Veda knows I don’t date. It has nothing to do with being attractive.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “You don’t date, but you still spent time thinking I ghosted you? When every time we’ve ever seen each other, it was because you were on my turf? At the arena? Or at Chester Green’s? Or Nick’s house?”
“Nick’s house is also Kami’s house. And who keeps track of turf? That’s ridiculous.”
“And you never texted or called me either.”
Clearly, we’re both to blame, and this is why misunderstandings suck. One of us needs to say sorry, then maybe the other one will say it too.
Or maybe not.
“Oh, look. Veda’s asking me to sneak her a margarita. This is why we’re here. C’mon. Let’s go find a liquor store.”
I tug his elbow.
He grunt-sighs the long-suffering grunt-sigh of a man frustrated with a woman, but he doesn’t argue, which is a relief.
Not a relief?
Running headfirst into someone cutting in line.
The scents of licorice and pipe smoke fill my nose. Wool scratches my cheek. Dread fills me from the feet up like someone’s pouring concrete into my blood, and I freeze as my eyes connect with his.
His weathered face twists into annoyance. “Watch where you’re—do I know—oh, fuck.”
“Gerry,” the woman with him snaps. “Language. We’re at a funeral, for shit’s sake.”
I can’t blink. I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.
I’m back in a dark hotel room, trapped, half-naked, waiting, like I promised I’d be, except it’s not some rich douchebag from the football team coming to claim what he’s paid for.
It’s my middle-aged rheumatology professor.
My married middle-aged rheumatology professor.
“Excuse us,” Dr. Richardson’s wife says. “Eyeballs, Gerald. Straight ahead.”
The wall of wool disappears. The scent fades. And the whispers start.
Or possibly they don’t, but I feel like I’m this giant blob covered in boils that everyone’s pointing at and trying to stay away from, lest my extreme discomfort cooties infect them too.
My ears are burning. My lungs are coiling themselves into a ball. My eyes are so hot they’re melting. All the Donettes I ate threaten to make a reappearance.