The screen lights up anyway.
Lulu:Question #25: If someone were to start a Sexy Wishlist Jar… should the slips be folded neatly or crumpled for dramatic effect?
A curse tears out of me, half-laugh, half-groan.
Me:You’re relentless.
Lulu:It’s called dedication.
Me:To what?
Lulu:Education. Duh.
I scrub a hand over my face, biting back a grin.
Me:Neither. I’ll burn the content before you get the chance.
Lulu:So dramatic. Dusty says hi, btw. He misses you. Sent his deepest regards while he was drooling on my pillow.
Me:Liar.
Lulu:Okay, he didn’tsayit, but I could tell from his eyes.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with granting selections from herSexy WishlistJar. I picture her curled on my couch, Dusty sprawled across her lap, her smile easy.
The dots appear again.
Lulu:Also, Question #26. How far does dirty talk go before it’s considered, you know,actual filth?
I groan into the pillow.
Me:Depends.
Lulu:On?
Me:On whether you can take it.
Lulu:Try me.
Heat stirs low in my gut. Distance makes it worse. Or better. Both.
The phone buzzes again before I can type.
Lulu:PS - I watched your game.
Lulu:You were good. Like, REALLY good.
My stomach tightens. My teammates say it. Coaches, reporters. But hearing it from her? Christ.
Me:You watched?
Lulu:Of course I did. I had Dusty on commentary. He gave you five tail wags out of five.
A laugh cracks out of me before I can stop it, tension bleeding from my shoulders. Nobody outside the rink’s ever cared enough to say it. She did.
The screen lights again, but not from her. Dad.
I kill the call with a thumb swipe, jaw locking. Not tonight. I don’t have the patience for a rundown of everything I could’ve done better, or the backhanded compliment that’ll follow. Not when Lulu’s voice is in my head instead.
