“Yeah. I haven’t read that one in a while. Might be fun to reread.”
She scrunched down in her sheets and propped the phone next to her pillow, her tired eyes content. “I’ll let you read to me.”
Chapter 24
Annie
NOVEMBER | Balance: $49,382
Nick Oberbeck read me to sleep. He brought a paperback I’d been reading at his house on his road trip and picked up where I’d laid the book down. He’d put a bookmark in it so he didn’t lose my place. He read until he noticed I wasn’t fully awake anymore, then whispered a “goodnight, angel.”
I hummed out a “goodnight, bubby,” and we hung up.
He was miles away in Las Vegas, but somehow it felt like we were closer than Roger and I ever were. Any of my partners, really.
Why did Nick have to be my client? And my client that I desperately needed, my highest dollar client. I couldn’t just slough him off to somebody else. I was waiting for my next paycheck when the goalie school commission would come through. That commission alone would wipe out my highest interest medical bill. Another bill paid off, another step closer to being free.
Don’t get me wrong. My other clients were important too. But Nick brought the fattest paychecks.
I hated that I had to think of him that way. I didn’t like our relationship being muddled by my financial dependence on his performance and decisions.
It was a Saturday morning after a long week, the weekend before Thanksgiving. Nick was back and well, but we were both busy and hadn’t had a chance to get together. I’d been traveling a lot, scouting at high schools and colleges for potential clients.
We’d penciled in our first in-person experiment date thing for that night. It would loosely follow me stopping by the goalie school event in the early afternoon, needing to show my face to the Goran Skate rep. Maybe I could get them to do deals with Romelski too.
So there I was, sitting on the toilet lid waxing the edges of my bikini line when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Annie. I hate to bother you on a Saturday, but I’m supposed to be the photographer at Goran’s goalie school today. My kid broke his arm last night and I won’t be able to make it. Is there any chance you can step in?”
I tried not to cry out as I ripped off my latest wax strip, breathing out hard through tight lips. “Oh, I’m sorry that happened to you! There’s no backup photographer?”
“I already called them. They’re booked for a wedding. If you can swing by my house, I can leave a camera on the porch for you to take.”
Logistics were worked out, and I stood, stunned, in front of my dresser.
I was tragically terrible at ice skating. Like, miserable. Kitty had tried to make me go a few times in high school, and even on perfectly fresh ice, I was a mess. How was I going to be able to take pictures with an expensive cameraon ice?
I picked out an outfit that would be easy to move in, but still casual. I put on a white tee and ripped jeans, plus a sweatshirt since it would be cold on the ice. It was hair washing day, and if I were following the original plan, I’d have been able to show up with freshly styled hair. Now with me subbing as the camera person, that wasn’t going to be happening. I didn’t have enough time to wash and dry, or wash and air dry. No air drying at a frigid ice rink. With dry shampoo, a backward hat, and a prayer, I slipped out the door and hurried to pick up the camera.
Things were just getting started when I arrived. Nick stood at center ice, the kids kneeling in a circle around him. My heart warmed at the sight: the kids hanging on his every word, and his calm, assured tone as he walked them through what they’d do. It was a perfect picture if I could just get out there. People walked on the ice in sneakers at games, right? Surely I could do it.
While Nick had his back turned, I quietly opened the barrier to the rink and stepped out, steadying myself as I toed my wayout there. I was just figuring out how I’d crouch down when my foot gave way, sending me flying. Like in a cartoon, my feet must have sailed fully above my head before I bit it, landing mostly on my shoulders with a thud. A murmur issued from the kids, and I heard a hurried “’scuse me.” The scrape of skate blades came toward me and Nick was on his knees at my side in a second.
“You okay, Annie?”
There I was, looking up at the rink’s ceiling, Nick’s sweet face hovering over mine, concern knitting his brow. The camera had hit my stomach hard, bruising my ribs with its weight. The brim of my cap dug into the back of my head. My back hurt from the sudden slam. I was stunned.
“Annie? Can you hear me, baby? Say something.”
That’s when the giggles hit me. And not cute giggles—those gurgly ones that start at the back of your jaw and almost make a fart noise with their force. Nick cracked a relieved smile and laughed along with me, looking far too sexy with a ballcap framing his face. The hat cast shadows over the beautiful crinkles around his eyes.
“Jesus, Markham, hell of an entrance.” He offered me a hand to pull me up to sitting. “Easy does it. Does your head hurt?”
“Just where my hat bill hit the ice. Probably saved me,” I said, shaking ice off the back of my sweatshirt.
“What are you even doing here?”
