It sits behind a few heavily wooded, walled-off acres at the back of a gated community. Nobody makes it this far unless they’ve been invited.
And the list of people who have received an invitation in the time I’ve lived here is pretty damn short.
I walk through the front door and stare up at the cavernous two-story foyer. It’s pretty enough, I guess. There’s a big chandelier, a sweeping staircase, and not much else.
The formal living and dining rooms are barely furnished with a few expensive pieces I’ve never even sat on.
There’s a chef’s kitchen that only gets used by my chef twice a week when he comes to prepare my strictly portioned, perfectly balanced meals for the next few days.
All of my actual living is done in the basement gym, the “family” room that’s dominated by a sectional couch and an enormous TV where I watch highlights and replays of games, and my bedroom with its custom king bed to accommodate my big frame.
That’s it.
Most of the house sits unused and closed off from the world, just as it was on the day I moved in. If it wasn’t formy housekeeper, ninety percent of the place would probably be covered in dust and cobwebs by now. And my day-to-day routine is so strict, so ingrained in my head, that I’m not sure I’d even notice.
But I’m going to do better. I’m going to be welcoming. A good host, or as close to it as I can get.
The next hour is a blur of making sure there are clean towels and toiletries in every bathroom, double- and triple-checking each guest room for clean sheets and fresh flowers, then second-guessing myself about the choices.
What if they’re allergic to the flowers?
What if the sheets aren’t the right thread count?
Fucking hell, how does anyone cope with having guests over?
I grimace when the doorbell rings because I know I’m not ready. I’d need another week, at least, to feel good about how this place looks—and to fill it with enough furniture to look like someone actually lives here.
But ready or not, it’s game time.
Chapter 5
Heather
This is all so weird. Almost surreal, like those last few minutes of a crazy dream, when I’m just conscious enough to know I’m going to wake up any second. Then I’ll be back in my normal bed, in my normal apartment, and living my normal, middle class life.
My life that doesn’t include professional hockey superstars or gated communities that hide the kind of mansions I’ve only ever seen on TV.
“Can you believe this, Mom?” April is literally bouncing in her seat as she leans out the passenger window. “That last house looked just like a castle! But bigger!”
“I’d hate to be the one who has to clean a whole castle,” I say, trying to inject a little levity into the situation.
But seriously, some of these houses—these actual castles—are so ridiculously over-the-top that it’s hard to believe anyone can feel at home in them.
“Do you think Grant lives in one like that?” she asks, pointing at a mock-Tudor that screams ‘old money’ even though the entire development was probably just a giant field five years ago. “Or maybe like that one!” She points to a modern build that’s all glass and sleek curves. “It’s almost like a spaceship!”
“It might be a spaceship, for all we know. Try not to get your fingerprints on the window, sweetheart.”
She huffs out a short breath and sits back in her seat a couple of inches, then shoots an impatient look my way. “So? Which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which one do you think will look more like Grant’s house?”
I give her question a few seconds of serious thought, then shrug. “I honestly have no idea what to expect. The house could look old or new or anything in between. The important thing is that we respect that it’s someone else’s house and that we’re only temporary guests there, right? We need to be on our best behavior, and that means you should call him Mr. Parker at first. At least until we know him a little better.”
She wrinkles her nose, and I feel a pang of guilt for raining on her parade, but I’d be doing her a bigger disservice if I didn’t set a few ground rules and lower her expectations just a little.
We’re not here to party. We’re not his hockey buddies. I’m not even sure I’d consider us to be very far past the acquaintance stage—maybe friends? Friendly, for sure.
