The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,26
couldn’t believe it when it went on the market for rent,” Indy says, her eyes dancing with excitement, like she’s reliving the moment. “I know it’s not glamorous. Or high-end. I know I could get something newer for the rent I pay here but I saw it and…” she trails off, shrugging. “I just fell in love. It’s cozy. Feels like home.”
I clear my throat. “That’s more than I can say about my place.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your place is gorgeous.”
“Do your parents live close by?”
“Not too far. They’re in Back Bay. Dad was mortified when he saw my little walk-up.” She laughs and I can tell she’s not even remotely offended by it. Passing me a coffee cup, she gestures that we can take a seat on the couch.
I drop into an easy chair and she sits on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her, both hands gripping the coffee mug as she blows across the hot coffee.
“But my mom loved it. She’s a lot like me. When my parents first moved up, Mom and I spent the whole first month being quintessential tourists. We must have gone to Paul Revere’s house three times. We went on this whole Revolutionary spree. I re-read Common Sense and The Federalist Papers and Mom dragged me to the cemetery to see Samuel Adams’ tombstone.” She laughs, the sound musical.
I like seeing her like this. Comfortable and at ease, surrounded by her books and holding her coffee mug. Something in my chest stirs. Memories from summers ago and moments from this past year, mixing together to fill me with a strange sense of nostalgia. But for what?
She takes a sip of her coffee and grins at me. “Did you and Easton do all the touristy things when you first moved here?”
It’s an innocent question. A normal one. Suddenly, it bothers me that I never appreciated the enormously important piece of history I live in. I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t.”
Her mouth falls open. “You’ve never been to Paul Revere’s house, have you?”
I shake my head again.
“Oh my God!” she declares, looking truly aghast. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you. I’m going to give you the best tour of Boston you’ve ever had.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around? You haven’t even been here a year,” I point out.
“True.” She nods. “I’ll take you around all the historical sites and—”
“I’ll introduce you to the modern city.”
“What does that entail?” She wrinkles her nose, skeptical.
“Restaurants, clubs, shopping. Have you dined at The Ivy yet? Or had margaritas at Jolene’s? They have a great happy hour.”
She shakes her head.
“Then you’re missing out too, Little Indy. We’ll each pick a day. One day, we do your Boston and one day, we do mine.”
She grins, nodding. “Okay, I like this plan.”
I take a sip of my coffee and smile back. “Not as much as me.”
Indy rolls her eyes but her cheeks pink and she looks adorable. I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed flirting so much but with Indy, it’s effortless. She blushes easily but is playful and engaging and doesn’t just agree with everything I say because of my public persona.
“When do you want to do this?” she asks.
I pause, thinking over my training schedule. “We have our season opener next week.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming to the game?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
She gives me a strange look. “Yes, my cousin is the captain.”
“Oh yeah.” I laugh, feeling like an idiot. Of course her entire family will show up to support Austin. The Merricks are nothing if not a tight family unit. “Well, training before the game is pretty intense but we will definitely have Sunday off.”
“Are you sure you want to spend it with me? It’s your only day off.”
I shrug. “I’m sure it will be better than playing Xbox.”
She wrinkles her nose but then her expression smooths out and her eyes glitter. “You may be singing a different tune once you’re sitting on a Duck Tour.”
I grimace, recalling the strange-looking tanks that turn into boats for tours around the city. If East could see me in this moment, he’d junk punch me and ask where the hell my manhood went. These are the types of things you do for your girl. Not for the girl you’re desperately craving but never going to make yours. “We’re going all in?”
“All in, Scotch,” she taunts, her gaze meeting mine over the rim of her coffee mug.