it.
And then there’s my hockey family.
Any given moment, I have literally dozens of people I can call for anything from joining me to grab a bite to eat to helping bury a body, plus I’m texting puck bunnies for relationship advice.
Muffy has her mom.
Sure, she has Kami too.
But her mom negates the Kami effect.
Fuck that.
Muffy’s getting my family.
I’m dating her.
And if she doesn’t know it yet, that’s okay. If she doesn’t want in yet, that’s okay too.
But I will date her.
I’m gonna date the shit out of her.
Muffy Periwinkle’s gonna know she’s worth something.
Whether she likes it or not.
25
Muffy
It takes me longer than it should to shower at Tyler’s place.
I’m off my routine. I don’t know which shampoo I should use. He doesn’t have conditioner. It takes me a while to sort out which bag has clean underwear and a nice enough outfit to wear for my screenings this evening. Plus, Rufus keeps trying to gnaw on one of the oranges in the bowl in the kitchen, and I don’t know the best place to put the litter box that the doorman delivers right as I’m finally naked in the bathroom.
Also?
Tyler has guest rooms.
Not one.
Two.
And one of those rooms is decorated in bright colors and stocked with Legos, blocks, board books, and dolls.
He’s a bachelor prepared for his sisters and their kids to stay with him.
Swoon.
Or possibly he secretly has kids of his own that no one knows about.
Unlikely, but there’s safety in pretending he has bigger secrets than that he’s scarred for life because of his zombie grandfather.
Otherwise, I’ll start asking questions.
Things like how long is he expecting me to stay here?
Which is really how long until he gets tired of the chaos of having me in his very neat and tidy home?
I can’t solve that one, so instead, I rush through a shower—yes, I am picturing him in here with me, without me accidentally assaulting his butt with a doorknob first—grab his keys, and head out for my first meeting, doing my damn best to not think about Tyler expecting me to sleep in his bed with him tonight.
Meeting one is a bust—the guy spends the entire time staring at something behind me in the coffee shop, and when I check to see exactly what’s behind me when I leave, I realize it’s a brick wall.
He literally would’ve rather talked to the brick wall.
And it’s not a fear of eye contact thing.
He made plenty of eye contact with everyone from the barista to the firefighter who came in for a to-go order for the station.
I’m willing to overlook social awkwardness. My clients are all on the socially awkward side too.
But something felt abnormally off, so he gets a pass, and I’m also really glad I’m using aliases as I screen candidates.
Candidate number two is a lovely gentleman who lets me buy my own coffee at a separate coffee bar several blocks away from the first, but offers to grab it for me when the barista calls my name. He makes eye contact, tells me about his nieces and nephews, and makes me wish I were having coffee with Tyler instead.
And I completely wig out on him when Maren walks in the door.
I’m talking diving-under-the-table, pulling my coat over my head, mumbling something about needing to go to the bathroom and then locking myself inside the men’s room wigging out.
While I’m hiding, my phone rings.
And the name flashing on my screen makes me cringe hard enough that I give myself a headache.
I still answer it though. “Hey, Kami.”
“Muffy? Where are you and why are you whispering?”
“I’m backstage at an indie rock concert at the amphitheater.”
“Did you fall and hit your head this weekend too?”
“No, I’m in the middle of something, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I saw Tyler. He said you moved in with him.”
I make static noises with my mouth. “I ca—squaawaabasssshhhhaaa—think I—swishswishswish—later.”
She doesn’t immediately call back when I hang up, but someone starts knocking on the door, so I wouldn’t answer even if she did.
Yes, I moved in with Tyler.
But I don’t know what it means.
I unlock the bathroom door, peek past the startled gentleman trying to get in here, spot Maren looking at her phone while she waits for her coffee, and realize my only option is to dart through the little kitchen area and burst out the back door.
“Sorry sorry sorry,” I mutter, jacket pulled up over most of my face, as I brush past the afternoon manager. “Bad date. I’m gone. I’m