28
Goldie
I don’t realizeI’ve fallen asleep on the floor in my living room until I jolt awake.
My hip still aches, but less than before. Sweet Pea is a warm lump snoring on my belly. Two-thirds of my bookshelves are empty, the barren spaces a stark reminder that I’m leaving this apartment and the country very soon.
But what has my heart drawing an unplanned shuddery breath over that isn’t the thought of leaving my apartment. Or Copper Valley. Or my friends.
No, the unexpected pull in my chest region is one hundred percent a response to Fletcher standing in the middle of all of the boxes that he packed for me.
If he’s shaved at all since the flaming cheese incident, you can’t tell. His facial hair is hovering on that line between thick scruff and full short beard. He’s wearing jeans that hug his powerful ass and thighs and he’s shed his jacket, leaving him in a gray PoundersT-shirt that’s stretched as tight as it can go across his chest and tattooed biceps. I let my gaze linger on his forearms, even though I shouldn’t.
I’m such a sucker for well-defined forearms. The kind with the thick veins that go all the way down a man’s hands to his long, strong—I mentally clear my throat.
Last night was aone-timehookup between friends. He’s not here for me to drool over him.
Especially with the way he’s holding the hummingbird figurine that’s been on display somewhere in every place I’ve lived since I was seven.
Not simply holding it though.
He’s staring at it as though it holds the answer to a question that’s weighed on him for decades, but he can’t find the key to unlock its puzzle.
He jerks his head in my direction like he’s suddenly aware that I’m awake and didn’t want to be caught studying my figurine.
“My grandpa gave it to me when I was seven. He always said I flitted like a hummingbird.” My voice is groggy, and my body feels heavy.
It’s late.
He has training tomorrow.
He’s probably exhausted, and that was likely true before he started packing my books for me.
But it feels imperative to tell him about the hummingbird. No judgment. Justthat’s what it is.
His eyes drift back to it. “My mom loved hummingbirds. Can’t see one without thinking of her. That’s why I remembered who you were. I heard your nickname, and it was like my mom—like I was supposed to know who you were.”
“What was she like?”
He pauses before he answers, carefully positioning the hummingbird back on the empty shelf like he wants to make sureits best side is showing before it’s packed away too. “Infinitely patient. She loved to laugh. Stunk like hell anytime she ate broccoli. Let me win in Monopoly. And she went out of her way to show up to all of my matches and made sure I didn’t miss any training when she was hiding how sick she was. The opposite of my old man in every way.”
My heart squeezes again.
He misses her.
You can hear it.
And I’m not at all surprised when he abruptly changes the subject. “How’s your hip?”
“Stiff, but okay.”
“Would stretching help?”
I don’t move. Not with Sweet Pea still snoring softly on my belly. “Probably. You didn’t have to pack all of my books.”
He squints one eyeball at me, a clearshut up, yes, I did. “I ran out of boxes before I found the secret lever to your even-more secret lair.”
That shouldn’t make my heart squeeze more, but it does. He’s fun.
