“We both know you’d never tell someone else to ask out Nettie,” Gina grumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “And those tickets are mine because I’m gonna drag her with me, make sure she’s wearing your jersey, and point out every amazing thing you do on the ice because I’m an incredible person despite only having an hour of sleep—so if you are done harassing me, you dreary and dark Dweeb—I’m going to bed now!”
“Sweet dreams—and nobody asked you to do that.”
“But we both know it makes you happy.”
“I never said that.”
“You never had to. I’m family.”
“So?”
“Don’t ‘so’ me at one in the morning,” Gina snapped. “And don’t threaten me with Justin.”
“Because it works?” Tate challenged.
“You don’t want to go down that road, Tate. Because if you do, then I will make sure Nettie never looks at you twice.”
Tate’s jaw clenched. He hated that she was right, hated that she could throw Nettie in his face, and it landed like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t ready to admit what was going on in his own head, much less hand her the satisfaction of calling him out.
“What do I care?” he shot back, sharper than he meant.
“You do your thing,” Gina chuckled knowingly. “Bark, growl, hiss, whatever, because we both know I’m right. Now, good night.”
“Go eat paint chips.”
“Sweet dreams to you, too.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh—and good game…”
“I’m hanging up now,” Tate muttered, stabbing the screen as her laughter filled his ear.
Mulligan hissed in solidarity, his tiny back arched, tail puffed to cartoonish proportions. Tate sighed and flopped back onto the bed, the kitten leaping onto his chest and settling like a warm stone.
He hated that Gina was right. And worse—he hated that she knew it.
Seeing Nettie earlier on the camera feed, her presence in his house, had been a jolt of unexpected joy he hadn’t realized he was craving. He could still picture her—smiling, wandering room to room, touching his world as if she belonged there.
Had she come in here? Into his bedroom?
What did she think when she saw it?
The thought twisted something inside him, sharp and sweet, until he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in frustration.
“Tate, you’re an idiot…” he muttered aloud, as Mulligan purred louder, unconcerned.
CHAPTER 13
NETTIE
Friday.
Her favorite ‘F’ word—usually.
But this Friday hadn’t simply strolled in with a cheery “Yay, it’s the weekend!” banner. Oh, no. This Friday barged in like an uninvited guest who smashed her vase, ate all the snacks, and left muddy boot prints across her soul.
She realized this the moment she stepped out her front door.
