Saved (Minnesota Caribou #5) - Colleen Charles Page 0,2

since her.”

I guess it’s nothing they haven’t all seen before and what’s a little nudity among friends? I slide my sweatpants down over my hips and wait for Kane to get this shit over with.

As I lie there, my junk shrinking in the cold with every passing second, Kane decides the light needs adjusting again, and that his obnoxious ass should also open D’s nightstand drawer and rummage around. The way he behaves, you’d never know he isn’t drunk.

He digs inside for a few seconds before he starts laughing like a rabid hyena. “Expired condoms? Check. Dental floss. Check. Kindle filled with unauthorized biographies of his idol Andre Deveaux. Check.” He pulls something out but from my prone position, I can’t really see what it is. “What the hell is this thing—most definitely not check?”

Dylan fires himself through the doorway like he’s exploding from the starting blocks at the Summer Olympics and wrests the item away from Kane. “Anyone ever told you it’s rude to go through someone’s dresser drawers, Rookie?”

Before D can grab it away, Kane throws a leather-bound case on the bed and snaps it open. “No fucking way! Can you play this thing?”

As I glance over my half-naked body to peek inside the red velvet-lined case, I see a flash of silver before Dylan snaps it shut. “Yes, if you must know.”

Kane’s face twists into a grimace. “What kind of a dude plays a flute? Are you gay or something?”

Dylan slaps him on the back so hard he flies forward a few steps. “It’s not a flute, it’s a piccolo. My mom played it when I was a baby. I remember. And since she’s dead now, it makes me feel closer to her when I play it. Is that okay with you or is that too gay?”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Max says, throwing his hands up. “Let’s all make that very clear. We’re an equal opportunity hockey team, Kane.”

Lord have mercy. How did a simple picture for Bob turn into a diatribe on dead parents, musical instruments, and homosexuality? If I ever suggest getting a bunch of testosterone-ridden dudes together again with alcohol and too much time on their hands, tell me to get bent. I never make the same mistake twice.

Except when it comes to Cora.

I clear my throat. “Um… can we get on with it, please?”

Kane glances down. “Christ, Blaine. Can’t you fluff it up or something? It’s so small the camera won’t even focus.”

“You’re not taking a picture of my dick, asshat! You’re taking a picture of the bruising and swelling!”

Kane leans over me and twists and turns his wrist until he’s satisfied. He takes the pic then shows me the photo.

“Looks good,” I say. “I mean the swelling doesn’t look as bad underneath your lighting choices. Nice job.”

He sets it to forward and starts typing. “Bob, right?”

I pull my sweatpants back on. “Yup. Bob in my contacts.”

“Done. I even used the Burner app to block your private number just in case. You’re golden, dude. See you on the ice tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” And as the evening winds down, I wonder why Cora never checked in with me today and why that bothers me more than it should.

Chapter Two

Cora

“Now, ladies. I want you to knit one purl one across the entire row. Let me know once you’re all finished and we’ll go from there.”

Barb’s soothing voice flows over the entire back room of Barb’s Yarns, the place where my knitting club meets on Tuesday evenings. I don’t even notice the worn industrial carpet, the bad overhead lighting, or the lack of windows. I lean over my stocking hat project, intent on getting everything perfect. I’m making this hat for Blaine’s birthday. It’s a cool teal blue and chocolate brown, the colors of the Caribou. It will perfectly match his Caribou jacket.

And there’s not much that makes me happier than everything coordinating and being in its proper place.

“Your hat looks lovely, dear,” Barb coos, leaning over me to tweak the tension of my yarn.

“Yes, Cora Bean,” my nana, Blanche, says, using her special nickname for me, her tongue poking out between her lips as she concentrates. Nana is a total pistol, and she’s the one who got me into knitting, something we can do together. We lost my grandpa last year, so she’s been lonely, and I make a point of never missing an evening at Barb’s. For some reason, my mom never really got bit by the knitting bug. As a second-grade teacher,