She squints and taps her lip with her pencil. “I’m trying to decide how bad it is that he works with Josh.”
I resist the urge to pull Mel’s hair or pour soup on her lap. “Can we please focus on statistics? I'm having an academic crisis here."
Mel gives me a look that says she's not fooled, but mercifully turns her attention back to my textbook. "Okay, so standard deviation. It's actually not that complicated..."
I try to concentrate on what she's saying, but I'm acutely aware of Tucker at the counter, of his number burning a hole in my pocket. When he finally leaves with a small wave in our direction, I feel both relieved and disappointed.
"You should text him," Mel says once he's gone, not even pretending to talk about statistics anymore.
"I will. About the necklace."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it." She leans forward. "Sloane, when was the last time you saw a guy look at you likethat? And don't say Josh, because he never looked at you likethat."
The comment stings, partly because it's true. Josh had always looked at me with approval, like I was a sensible purchase he'd made. Tucker looks at me like I'm something extraordinary.
"It doesn't matter," I say, flipping a page in my textbook without reading it. "I'm trying to put my life back together, not complicate it with... whatever that would be."
"Fun?" Mel suggests. "Happiness? Mind-blowing sex with a hottie who clearly knows how to use all of that.” She makes lewd hand gestures.
I glare at her, but she just shrugs, unrepentant. Things were simpler when Mel and I were undergrads. Now, I’m well aware that amazing sex doesn’t cancel out all the other risks that come along with Tucker Stag.
"I'm just saying, you don't have to marry the guy. But maybe getting your necklace back isn't the only reason to call him."
I stare down at my statistics book, the formulas blurring before my eyes. Part of me—a bigger part than I want to admit—wants to pull out my phone right now, to text Tucker and see him again. To feel that rush, that electricity that I'd forgotten could exist between two people. Because even though I was embarrassed and frustrated when he waved at me the other day, I still went home and remembered every … single … detail of what we did together at that ski house.
But the part of me that spent five years becoming someone she barely recognized in service to a man's career and ego is terrified. I remember how it started with Josh, too. The excitement, the butterflies, the feeling of being swept away.
I'd put my entire life on hold once for a man. I'd disappeared into his world, his needs, his dreams. I never even got to enjoy the perks of being an athlete’s wife since Josh was so superstitious and reclusive. We didn’t party. Paparazzi didn’t mob us. I hardly even went to his games—he said it messed with his focus, and after a while, I stopped asking. I'd emerged with nothing to show for it but a pile of money I’m too ashamed to spend and a hole where my self-worth should be.
I can't do that again. I won't.
I push my phone deeper into my pocket and force myself to focus on the formulas in front of me, trying to ignore the lingering warmth of Tucker's smile and the quiet voice in my head, wondering what would happen if, just this once, I let myself follow that feeling again.
CHAPTER 8
TUCKER
I glanceat my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. She said she'd be here at eight. It's 7:53. I'm not usually the guy who waits around for women—and now that I’ve tasted my own medicine, I see that it’s sour. I’m pacing my apartment like a teenager before his first date.
This is ridiculous. I'm Tucker Stag, professional hockey player, Thin Ice condom brand rep, and certified man-about-town. I don't get nervous about women coming over.
Except, apparently, when that woman is Sloane.
Who, I remind myself, was married to my teammate.
I survey my penthouse with fresh eyes, trying to see it as she might. Not that I need to care what she thinks. But the massive flat-screen dominating the living room wall suddenly seems ostentatious. The leather sectional feels impersonal. Because it is. God, I didn’t even pick out my own furniture. The glass-and-chrome coffee table is littered with hockey magazines and a few endorsement contracts my agent, Brian, dropped off yesterday.
I hastily gather the papers and shove them into a drawer. I don’t know how to spruce this place up to look less like a pretentious bachelor pad in … I check my watch. I’ve got three minutes.
I quickly stash empty protein shake bottles in the recycling and fluff the decorative pillows I've never once used. I grab the half-empty whiskey bottle from the bar cart and hide it in a cabinet.
Am I seriously trying to impress her? I never expected her to suggest coming by tonight to get her necklace.
The necklace. I hurry to retrieve it from my underwear drawer, where I've kept it safe. The small gold sun catches the light, spinning slowly as I hold it up. Such a simple thing to have occupied so much of my thoughts.
The doorbell chimes, and my heart rate kicks up. I shove the necklace into my pocket and take a deep breath. It's just a woman coming to retrieve her property. Nothing more. Even if I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.
The elevator door opens to reveal Sloane looking somehow even more beautiful than I remembered. Her curls are loose around her gorgeous face, and she's wearing a simple sundress that shows off her athletic figure. She looks slightly nervous, which makes me feel marginally better about my own inexplicable anxiety.
