don’t need to hear this.
Problem is: I wanted to hear it.
Rico kept pushing. “Admit it. You’re more than her DD.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I saw you eyeballing her ass during the pool games. I saw the ‘back off’ looks you gave the regulars who just tried to say hello to her. If you’re into her, dude, just say so.”
Nolan chuckled.
A strange feeling tightened my insides; throat, chest, gut.
“I’m not into her at all. She’s not my type.”
Yep. Totally should’ve left.
“I really am just her DD. That said, I definitely expected more than her macho ‘man this sucks, I need to get drunk and get laid’ attitude after her boyfriend dumped her tonight, which is exactly what I hear from my guy friends after a breakup.”
Rico said, “You don’t know Gabi at all if you thought she’d be crying in her tequila.”
“You’re right. I don’t know her at all. I get that she’s tough. But I suspect that’s all there is to her, regardless if she’s in her hockey uniform.”
Oh that stung.
But mostly because he wasn’t wrong.
Given the craptastic day I’d had, that comment shouldn’t have been what brought me to tears, but it was. I wheeled around, nearly knocking the cocktail waitress over. “Damn. Sorry, Brenda.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I—I just need to get out of here.” Right now. “Can I go out the back?”
Brenda looked concerned. “Are you going to be sick?”
“No. It’s just . . . everything I shoved down today is starting to surface and I don’t wanna be in public when the meltdown happens.” Not a lie; I barely kept my voice from shaking.
“Honey, that I can understand. You go on.”
“Thank you.” I handed her a twenty. “This should cover what’s left of my tab. Tell Rico I’ll see him later.”
She nodded. “What should I tell your DD?”
That he can go fuck himself.
When would I learn that a man like Nolan Lund—charming, wealthy, gorgeous, well-connected—would never look beyond the surface of any woman, let alone me? I had no issue admitting that my outer shell had none of the slick, glossy veneer he required. Most days I was perfectly fine with that.
However . . . today was not one of those days.
“Gabi?” Brenda prompted.
“If he asks, tell him I got a ride home.”
I already had the Uber app open as I slunk out the delivery exit.
Two minutes until the car arrived.
Enough time to chastise myself for thinking for one moment that Nolan Lund and I could ever be friends.
Three
GABI
Bang bang bang.
I pulled my pillow over my head and tried to sink deeper into my mattress.
The banging continued.
Jerking the covers back, I stumbled out of bed. It was the first Sunday in months I didn’t have to be up at the crack of nothing to be at the rink, and dammit, I deserved to sleep in.
I didn’t bother checking the peephole before I twisted the deadbolt, slipped the chain and threw open the door, bellowing, “What!”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” Liddy, my pesky neighbor/pain-in-the-rear friend, breezed past me carrying a covered plate that smelled heavenly. She disappeared around the corner and called out, “I’ll just put on the kettle.”
Yawning, I made my way into the kitchen. Liddy looked every inch the English rose with her smartly styled strawberry-blond hair, her flawless ivory skin, her knee-length floral dress topped with a formfitting pale pink cardigan and ending with nude-colored kitten heels.
When she spun around, I half expected to see a string of pearls around her neck, white gloves on her hands and a designer pocketbook tucked in the crook of her elbow. She scowled at me. “Bloody hell, woman. You actually answered the door in shambles? You’re lucky I didn’t bugger off at the sight of you.”
So much for my comparing her to an English rose; she was more English bulldog. “You woke me up. And you would’ve kept beating on the bloody door if I’d ignored you.”
“True. But you will forgive me, when you see I brought scones. Thoroughly English, freshly baked blueberry scones with real clotted cream and lemon curd.”
I curtsied. “Did you bake them before you headed off to church, milady?”
“Piss off, puckhead. Not only don’t I go all British Bake Off, I refuse to step foot in any of the fifth-cousin-removed churches here in the colonies that blasphemes the glorious Church of England.”
I laughed. “I thought you were an atheist?”
She sniffed. “Darling, I’m agnostic. True atheists don’t celebrate Christmas and I just can’t imagine a life without presents, eggnog and plum pudding.” She gave me a once-over.