“Not at all.” I scooted a lounger closer to the edge, and she sat on the side, tugging off her cute cross trainers and ankle socks. Her toenails were bright purple with sparkles. I smiled at the cheerful color.
She rolled up the legs of her jeans and settled on the pool’s edge, kicking her feet back and forth.
“This is nice. I don’t know that I’d ever leave the deck.”
I divested my feet of my socks and shoes and settled next to her. “It’s one of the best parts of living here, in such a warm climate. I’m from Toronto and individual pools aren’t the norm there. Nor are hot, humid summers.”
She nudged my shoulder. “Probably why you’re so good at hockey.”
I stared out across the water, enjoying the faint hum of cicadas.
“My father put me on skates right after I learned to walk. I wasn’t sure I wanted to play hockey—that was his dream—until I won the under-eleven championship. I’m competitive.”
She’d turned her face upward and studied me while I spoke. I liked her perusal and how she showed an interest in my past and what I had to say.
“So, you found a passion within your father’s dream? Made it your own?”
I shrugged. “Eventually. But the pressure to perform was intense. I moved out at fifteen to billet with another family. That was good, actually, because my father couldn’t criticize all my mistakes. It’s not that he didn’t love me,” I rushed to add. “It was just that he expected excellence.”
“From a child.” She frowned. “I see that often with the parents of my students. It’s like people forget the kids are separate people who will have to live their own lives.”
We both turned to watch a dragonfly skate over the water’s surface. I wondered if Keelie was on to something there. My father had programmed my internal drive for success—I’d never found my passion…or learned how to fail and try something new.
My mother was the same way. She remained hurt by my divorce from Shannon—as ifhermarriage had failed. Only with time and space had I realized how much my parents’ expectations smothered me—and that’s why I refused to go back to Toronto.
The oven timer chimed via my phone. I stood, letting the water sluice off my calves and feet. “Dinner’s ready.”
Keelie rose easily and grabbed her shoes and socks in one hand. “Show me where your plates and silverware are, and I’ll set the table after I wash my hands.”
And just like that, she dropped the tense subject, letting me come back to it in my own way, in my own time. Keelie was so different from anyone else in my life. Possibly because of her profession, but I believed it washer—she’d chosen her work based on what suited her best. And she was empathetic but not pushy.
I appreciated that more than she could know, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t tell her.
Chapter13
Keelie
Idried my feet with the towel Cormac provided before I padded across the space to where I’d set my phone. Marian had sent me a few texts, as had some of my work colleagues.
This seemed to be part of the cost of dating a professional athlete: other people wanted to get to him through me. I sighed, wondering how I’d know who my genuine, interested-in-me friends were now.
“Everything okay?” Cormac asked. He stood in the kitchen, towel in hand, tall and broad, with sturdy thighs at least twice the size of mine. He turned as he bent to wipe the last of the water from his toes and the floor. His butt was delicious—taut and thick, pure muscle.
I swallowed as need pooled in my abdomen. “How do you handle relationships?” I asked. “I mean, already people are messaging me because they want to meet you.”
Cormac put out his hand for my towel, which I gave him. He gripped both his towel and mine in one hand as he eased in close enough to touch my cheek. “The part of fame I dislike most is the loss of anonymity. People talk, and they’re not all nice. Some people will try to use you, and that hurts. But I promise you this, Keelie: I’ll do everything I can to protect you, to let you know how much I respect and cherish you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Cherish? I must be a fine communicator if we’re there already.” My belly buzzed with nerves as I tried to keep it light. I squashed the yearning down.
He tapped the tip of my nose with his finger. “It’s the sass. I can’t get enough of it.”
The timer chimed again, so he turned away to get the food from the oven. “Dishes are there, glasses there, and silverware there.” He pointed with his free hand. “I’m going to throw these in the laundry room.”
“Sounds good.” After washing my hands, I refilled our glasses and grabbed silverware, then set everything on the table. It was some hardwood I wasn’t familiar with—seemed solid, not a veneer like mine.
“How hungry are you?” he asked as he pulled out a serving spoon.
“Hungry. I run after kids all day.”
