He’s a walking distraction, bless him.
“Alright,” he says, clapping once. “Let’s eat, because if I don’t get a breadstick into me, I may start chewing drywall.”
I glance at Deacon — and for just a second, before Dash starts another monologue about sauce portions, Deacon’s eyes find mine again.
There’s quiet there. Understanding.
“Let’s eat.” Dash rubs his hands together and begins a running commentary about which pasta looks sexier under the light.
THIRTEEN
Chemistry
Deacon
Upon Nalaniand Koa’s return, it’s apparent that they still have that chemistry… love. After cleaning up and saying our goodbyes, I steal one last glance at Claudia. She’s quiet, rocking Savannah against her shoulder, the dim light catching the curve of her cheek.
Stunning.
We say our goodbyes, and Dash holds the door open for me as we head out. The stairs creak under our boots, echoing in the otherwise quiet building. It really does have great bones.
Halfway down, Dash says, “So, random, but Callahan, Neiberg, and Koz all hit me up about moving into the Puck Pad.”
The Puck Pad has six bedrooms. Koa, Dash, Aleks Kilovak, Lenzin Faulker, and I all have rooms there. There is another room, one without a bathroom; it’s used for additional storage.
“I told them I’d check with you, since technically you, Koa, and I —"
“Once Koa moves out and into his place, that’s one open room.”
“Yeah, but that still leaves two guys who’ll need somewhere, and I’d prefer that not be our living room.”
“I’ll find a storage unit and move my things,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Another room free.”
Dash nods thoughtfully, humming like he’s doing math in his head. “It was the three of us to start with, and my kid sister is hell bent on getting an internship in the city. I suppose it’s time that I look for a place.”
We hit the bottom step, and there’s Paul, looking over the new lock.
“Thought I had a new tenant up in one of the second-floor apartments with their TV volume up too loud,” he says without looking in our direction. “Watching a bad sitcom.”
Dash grins. “Do you have any more space in this place, Mr. Bronski?”
“This is no place for you two big shots.” Paul looks around. “My wife used to polish and shine the woodwork on those stairs every Wednesday. She’d love those girls around, I feel it in here,” he taps his hand to his heart. “But she wouldn’t love what it looks like now.” He forces a laugh. “Wouldn’t love it being chopped up into apartments either.” He shrugs. “Hard to find any help worth a damn anymore.” He smirks. “Or maybe the help I do hire just doesn’t want to listen to an old man.”
“You should name-drop,” Dash suggests. “Any hockey fan would be honored to work on your home.”
“Love your enthusiasm, kid, but only fans of mine are long gone.”
“Any chance you'd like to rent out any of this space to a couple,” I chuckle, “well I was gonna say weekend warriors, but you know the drill.”
He scrubs a hand over his chin, “Might be some space, give you the same deal as I've given legs, if you boys don’t mind swinging a hammer now and then. Bit of fixing up for cheaper rent.”
Dash’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, are you saying you’re up to two new tenants?”
Paul smirks, folding the paper neatly. “Maybe. If they don’t mind hard work and don’t make too much noise after ten.”
Dash lights up. “Buddy system housing with benefits? Sign me up! Wait, no, not those benefits. Not trying to make it weird?—”
Paul shakes his head. “Too late.”
