“Ah. There it is.”
“There what is?” he asks as he turns into Mrs. Slater’s drive a few blocks down from mine. When I bought mine back before the breakup, it seemed practical. Oakley Kate would be near her mother, and we’d each have a short commute to the rink.
Turned out fantastic. Really nailed that one.
“Your motive for coming, for dragging me to dinner tonight. I’m not asking your sister for help, and I wish you guys—because clearly, you’ve talked to either Thorn or Rooks—”
“Both.”
My eyes clench shut as I breathe through the irritation at being micromanaged by my best friends and coach.
I clear my throat before continuing. “Your sister will be here for a few weeks, maybe less, and then she’s gone. Like always.” Staring at the front porch where I asked Kates on our first date digs the truth in a little deeper. “She doesn’t want me. I’ve accepted it. Just wish you and the rest of this town would, too.”
Noah shakes his head as he climbs out, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “You keep thinking that, hotshot.”
I contemplate hiding in the truck, but with my luck, Mrs. Slater would drag me out by the ear while threatening to let someone else do her yard work.
It’s pathetic how whipped Oakley Kate still has me when she doesn’t even live here. Not that I’d change it—or Mrs. Slater’s lawn schedule.
Chapter 9
Silas
Walking through the front door of the Slater house is as familiar as lacing up my skates. The faint, familiar scent of citrus cleaner hits first. The low hum of the ceiling fan that’s probably been running since the early nineties pushes the smells throughout the house and open windows. It’s the same as always, and yet, a slight tension hangs in the air. Like even the walls of this house know Oakley Kate and I can’t avoid each other forever.
Noah abandons me the first chance he gets, sneaking into the kitchen to swipe whatever dessert smells so good. I catch myself scanning the kitchen and hallway for a flash of blonde hair with colored ends.
Instead, Mrs. Slater steps around the kitchen entrance. “Hey, sweetheart. How are you holding up without your shadow?” she asks softly.
Honestly, I hate that I’ve kept Aubrey a secret from Oakley, mostly because it isn’t fair to this saint of a woman who has helped in too many ways to count since this guardianship journey began.
“Hating every second of it,” I grumble. Apparently, I’m still frustrated. “She’s having fun with Hannah, though.”
“As much as you hate it as a parent, it’s good for her to get that interaction. I remember how tough it was to let the kids out of my sight after we lost their daddy.” She briefly squeezes my arm before stepping back. Then, with a nod to the living room, she adds, “Try not to let the stress consume you. Oaks is in there.”
She disappears into the kitchen, and if the scolding that follows is any clue, Noah’s been caught red-handed in the cookie jar. I take a breath and brace myself for whatever comes next.
There is no preparing my heart for seeing her. She’s kicked back in the old recliner, looking equal parts nervous and happy.
“Hey, Kate.”
“Hey, yourself.” Her voice is soft, tentative, but I can tell she put effort into her appearance. Her braid is a little messy at the ends, like she gave up halfway through, and the thin line of black along her lashes makes her eyes look brighter than before. It’s nothing fancy—still just Oakley Kate—but it's everything to me.
The girl only gets “fixed up” if she wants someone to notice. The same girl who used to steal her brothers’ clothes because they were more comfortable, who always preferred dirt and sweat to makeup and hairspray. She only plaits her hair or adds eyeliner when she wants to be seen.
She’s silly for thinking she needs any of that. She’s too beautiful to miss.
“How’s the ankle?” I ask as I settle onto the couch closest to her, scanning her face for any sign of pain. A lifetime of high-level sports makes it second nature.
“How’s yours?” she fires back, a blonde eyebrow arched knowingly.
I tilt my head, thinking back to our encounter at the store. I’m almost positive I didn’t mention it to her. Her plump, pink lips tilt upward—half smirk, half challenge.
“Slight hobble in your stride when you walked away earlier gave it away. And you had most of your weight shifted to your right side instead of your usual balanced stance. Not bad enough to classify as a full-on sprain—you wouldn’t risk your coach’s wrath by walking on it—but bad enough you probably need a new tape job.”
The four-letter curse is out of my mouth before I can stop it, but the soft giggle it elicits makes it worth it.
Damn. I forgot how sexy it is when she reads me like that. Although, right now I’d rather she didn’t.
