Quickly moving on, likely because her behavior points toward his failings as a parent, he gives me a bunch of guff about the game against Ottawa, grandstanding about the Mustangs blowing us off the ice.
After I hang up, the condo is quiet and I find Kai already asleep—he must be exhausted from the flight … from life with Desiree. I sit in the dark living room and think about belonging. About Kai and how his mom chose a new boyfriend over her own son. About Nina, probably lying awake in her house in Cobbiton, trying to figure out if she’s willing to take on a fake husband and an instant nephew, er, son.
About the fact that I might need my wife more than I thought.
Not for show or convenience, but because between New Year’s Eve and now, the idea of doing this alone feels impossible. But more than that, she’s been in the front of my mind all this time.
Her soft skin, her knowing eyes, her full lips. The wordsI dospoken with what looked like intention. Yeah, I’ve watched the video of our wedding more times than I’d admit.
The next morning, I wake up to find that Kai must’ve been up early and switched out the contents of my kitchen cabinets for all the hockey gear in this place—from socks to pucks. At least he has his priorities in order.
I also have a series of missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. Most likely, Desi got a new one. But there aren’t any voicemails. At this point, would she even bother to check if Kai made it safely?
I realize that my life as I knew it is officiallyover.
And for the first time in months, that doesn’t terrify me.
It just makes me want to find out if Nina is ready for an adventure because the idea of doing this with her makes anything seem possible.
CHAPTER 9
The past fewdays have been a blur of early morning baking, last-minute catering orders, and playing phone tag with Lane.
Every time I think about his nephew showing up on his doorstep, my personal past presents itself—loss and longing all knotted together like a poorly planned knitting project. A deep need I didn’t know I wanted to fill overwhelms me.
I keep telling myself it’s just my natural caretaking instincts kicking in. I’ve always been the one who shows up with safety pins and stain remover, who remembers everyone’s favorite cookies and who can’t walk past a stray dog without wanting to take it home. This situation with Kai shouldn’t be any different—even more so since he’s a human who just wants to be loved.
Except it feels that way.
Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like to be unwanted. Bibi and Papa were great, but I always felt like I wasn’t enough to make my mother stick around. She looked at me and decided that I was too much. That her idea of fun was more appealing. That there was something out there bigger and better for her.
The idea of a ten-year-old boy being passed over by his mother for a boyfriend and a lark in Fiji makes something roar to life inside of me—mama bear style.
Or maybe it’s because Lane sounded so lost on the phone. Not the confident hockey player from New Year’s Eve or the problem solver who visited my bakery, but a man who’s been handed a child and doesn’t know where to start.
Either way, I can’t stop thinking about it.
Would it be so bad to play house with a hockey hunk and a child in need?
“Nina!” Bree’s voice cuts through my pondering as she barges into my house without knocking. As usual. “Put down whatever you’re doing to avoid reality and come with me.”
I shuffle in front of the mess of ingredients on the counter. “I’m not engaging in oven therapy.”
Following Bree through the door, Cara points. “You’re making cookies that look like puffy hockey pucks.”
Bree chimes, “That’s either baking becuase you’re stressed or Margo hired you for a hockey event.”
“They’re marshmallows dipped in chocolate—a new thing I’m trying, so I didn’t waste the chocolate,” ... or eat all of it.
“We’re going to the game tonight,” Ella announces as she appears, producing what looks like a Knights jersey from her oversized purse.
Bree holds it up to my torso. “And you’re wearing this.”
I read the name and number printed across the back.Sheridan.Number twenty-two.
I stare at the jersey like it might burn me if I get too close. Where are those oven mitts?
“I am not wearing my husband’s jersey to a hockey game,” I say firmly.
