I don’t check The Bench. I know what it says. I can feel it—vibrating through my phone, crackling through town like electricity in dry air. News of me kissing the hot hockey dad is already everywhere.
The kiss. Me and Thatcher. Out in the open. Under lights. In the world’s nosiest town.
Thatch will hate this—hate the gossip.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but I can’t regret it.
Hell no.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor like it’s going to give me answers. The room is too quiet. My phone’s on the nightstand, screen dark. I haven’t heard from him since the kiss last night.
We left it at those kisses, heated but buffered by the layers of clothing. They should have been buffered by being out in the middle of town, but that didn’t seem to have much effect.
I’d explored his mouth thoroughly, enjoying the slide of his tongue against mine, his lips covering mine and taking what they wanted. His phone had buzzed after some indeterminable amount of time because it was time for him to pick up Jamie.
Still, even after he’d stepped back, brought back to earth by his phone, he’d taken a few steps forward when it was time for us to part, and I’d pulled him back for another kiss I couldn’t help but think held a hell of a lot of promise.
I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to be the first to reach out, or if he’s regretting it, or if it didn’t mean to him what it meant to me.
Maybe I imagined the way he looked at me when we realized we could be seen by anyone—like maybe it didn’t matter.
I pick up the phone . . . just hold it for a second.
Then I type.
Me:Hey. About last night . . .
I delete it.
Try again.
Me:You want to talk?
That feels worse. Too vague.
Delete.
One more time.
Me:If you’re free tonight, I’d like to see you.
Send.
My chest aches the second I do. But then the three dots appear almost instantly.
Hot Hockey Dad: There’s a workshop behind my house. At 8. Door’ll be open.
I read it three times before I put the phone down.
It’s just after eight when I walk up the gravel path behind Thatcher’s house. The snow’s been shoveled but the ground’s still hard, crunching under my boots. The lights in the workshopare on—soft and yellow behind the old windows—and there’s smoke curling from the chimney. I hadn’t really registered the workshop when I was here before.
I don’t knock. The message said the door would be open, and it is. I step inside, and the warmth hits me first—real heat, not the kind you get from vents, but from fire and wood and something that smells faintly like cedar.
Then I see him.
Thatcher’s standing at a workbench, sanding the edge of what looks like a table leg. He’s in an old sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up, sawdust clinging to his corded forearms. He doesn’t look up right away. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
Just finishes what he’s doing, then finally turns.
