I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) - Pippa Grant Page 0,63

me, but she does sink back into the car.

She hadn’t even shut her door.

Her mother got her with a one-two punch of insecurities before she could even shut the fucking car door.

Her eyes are as round as a hockey puck as I close her in the car. Lips parted. Cheeks stained bright pink on her high cheekbones.

I don’t know if she’s horrified or turned on, and I don’t care.

Hilda peppers me with questions that I ignore as I stroll up the walk, past her, and into the house. I have no idea where Muffy’s room is, but that’s the only thing I don’t know.

I know she needs clothes. I know she’d probably like her cat. I know to grab the box of tampons under the sink in the bathroom, and no, it doesn’t bother me in the least, because my sisters have talked about way worse than tampons over the years.

Dammit.

This is the moment having four sisters has trained me for.

And you know what?

For the first time in my life, I’m grateful as hell.

It takes two trips.

One for the clothes, and I don’t mean the massive pile of clothes on her bed. I mean all the clothes from her closet and drawers that I can fit in the three reusable grocery bags I find scattered on her floor.

And one trip for the cat.

I grab him by the scruff and carry him outside, knowing I’m not getting his litter or his food or his toys, but also knowing that’s the easy stuff.

I wrench Muffy’s door open, shove the cat in her lap, and march around to the driver’s side.

Hilda’s actually fallen silent and is gaping at me while I rev the engine, then peel away from the curb.

I’m gripping the wheel too tight. Breathing too hard. Clenching my jaw so tight it might not ever open again.

We’re well out of the neighborhood and halfway to downtown before Muffy speaks. “There’s a shortcut to Kami’s house if you turn right on—”

I cut a glance at her that has her falling silent.

She’s not moving in with Kami.

23

Muffy

Is it normal to be both so horny you might spontaneously combust and also on the verge of a total meltdown?

On some level, I know that it’s all kinds of wrong to enjoy being kidnapped by a broad-shouldered, angry, testosterone-fueled hockey player of doom.

But I’m here willingly.

Physically, anyway.

Emotionally, I’m pretty sure I’m butt-naked in the hot seat in the middle of a crowded restaurant while a hibachi chef twirls his tools all around, playing a drum beat before flaying me alive.

I said hot seat?

I meant right there on the griddle.

You deserve to have your body worshipped the right way. Say something nice about yourself. I won’t let her treat you this way.

Tyler Jaeger is my hero and my nemesis all at once.

I haven’t been in therapy for years to not know that my mom isn’t exactly healthy for me.

Every time my therapist would broach the subject, I’d tell her I worked enough hours and had an active enough social life that I didn’t see Mom that much. Or that I couldn’t afford to live somewhere else. Or that I felt like working through my issues with Mom was more important than abandoning her. She’s funny in her own way. And I know she’s only worried about my weight because she wants me to be healthy.

She loves me. I know she does. But she doesn’t have a lot of self-awareness when it comes to how her words land.

But possibly I’m making excuses so I don’t have to tell all the people in my life who think she’s funny and that it’s fabulous that she lets it all hang out that I don’t, in fact, have the same relationship with her that they do.

Or possibly so I don’t have to admit how terrified I am that if I move out, I’ll fail.

Again.

I’m holding Rufus tight on my lap so he doesn’t hop into the backseat and do something I’d regret and have to pay to clean up.

Unlike most of the drive from Richmond to Copper Valley, which was both simmering with tension at the unspoken expectation of what we plan to do on our date Saturday night, and also super fun as we talked about everything from fantasy novels to the worst sports moments of all time, right now, there’s only tension, and I’m not sure it’s the good kind.

Tyler’s not speaking.

He’s just breathing.

Loudly.

Angrily.

His knuckles are white, and I hope he’s not going to have to hold anything when