“You didn’t need to go all out, you know? I was only joking when I saidthe whole nine yards.”
“This is the only place I’ll eat steak.”
I roll my eyes at him in jest. “You have more money than sense.”
He just smirks, picking up his knife and fork and cutting into his steak. “I know the owners. Sometimes, the guys come here after games.”
It’s easy to forget that Emmett is a huge NHL player whose face is famous across Brooklyn. To me, he’s just my dad’s best friend and someone I’ve known most of my life. I might tease him about money and being big time, although his attitude couldn’t be further from that. Emmett has always been a humble guy with a big heart, and the way he comforted me today was evidence that not much had changed over the past three years.
“Do you still talk to Maria, or has all contact been cut?”
He stiffens at my question, and I instantly regret asking it. It’s not really my place to.
“Sorry.” I grimace. “I shouldn’t be nosy.”
Pulling off his glasses, he sets them on the table and massages the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he does it.
“I only mentioned her in case you wanted to talk about it,” I offer. “I know she meant a lot to you, and you probably miss her.”
Something in Emmett’s expression reveals that my assumption might not be completely accurate. I knew very little about their marriage other than my memories of Maria always vying for control over every conversation. But that Christmas before I left for college showed a different side of her. I felt the animosity grow between them. The clipped way she spoke to him when he and I were setting the dinner table. And then they were barely out of our front door before she was waving herarms in his face as they walked down our driveway, in the middle of a fight.
Spying on them through the blinds was probably a bit intrusive, but like I just admitted to Emmett, I’m nosy.
“I don’t talk much about Maria to anyone, and I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. I guess there isn’t much to say.”
I nod once and snag a green bean from my plate. It’s cooked perfectly.
“I get that,” I reply, swallowing down a mouthful. “It’s the same way with Tucker. Even though we are going to have a baby together.”
Emmett presses his full lips into a thin line, sitting back in his chair as he thinks over my statement. He folds his corded arms across his chest, the sleeves on his gray henley pushed up to the elbows.
I drop my eyes to my plate, eager not to be caught in the act of checking him out.
“Maybe I’m overstepping here, Bill. But surely, new parents—whether they’re still together or not—need to be in contact.”
He isn’t overstepping; he’s absolutely right.
I pick up my water glass and bring it to my lips, eyes back on his when I say, “Open communication only works if both parties are willing to cooperate.”
Irritation pulls Emmett’s brows together. “Tucker won’t even speak with you?”
“Barely. I had a delightful phone call with him this morning, where he made it pretty clear that he didn’t care about me or the baby. I didn’t bother to text him and let him know that everything was normal, only my parents.”
He shifts in his chair, not immediately responding. When he picks up his soda and takes a large pull, I watch the tendons in his jaw work. He’s mad on my behalf, although he doesn’t need to be. I can look after myself just fine.
“I’m sorry, Billie,” is all he says as he sets the glass back down on the table and asks a server for another bottle of still water.
Emmett moves and speaks with such confidence. He’s all man but gracious in how he carries himself, and I conclude that it only adds to my attraction. No one can ever know that I have the hots for him. Emmett discovering my crush would be enough to bury me alive with embarrassment.
It would also end the most unlikely of friendships. Who knew that a thirty-five-year-old pro hockey player would be one of the best and most valuable people in my life right now?
I opt to change course, redirecting the conversation away from my ex-boyfriend. “Thanks for giving me a ride to the hospital.”
When the server sets a fresh bottle of water down, Emmett asks him to hold off pouring and does it himself, twisting the metal cap and refilling my glass before his own.
“He’s a fucking prick.”
The way he bites out his words catches me off guard. I’ve never witnessed Emmett lose his temper, although he’s right on the edge, and I know it.
