It takes her a minute to respond.
“Can you just…stay on the phone for a bit?”
I grip my lip between my teeth to keep from pressuring her to talk, instead slipping out of my jeans and settling against the headboard in my boxer briefs and henley.
I want to beg her to open up, to tell me what’s eating at her, but that isn’t what she needs right now. “I’m here, Kates. Get some rest.”
I lie awake for far too long, long after her breathing settles. Even when I know she’s fallen asleep, I can’t seem to find it in me to press that red button. Sure, she’ll see the five-hour time stamp if she checks her call log, but that doesn’t faze me.
What does faze me is the two hours of sleep I manage before my alarm goes off at four forty-five. Coach is going to kill me.
Chapter 16
Oakley Kate
“It is not the end of the world, you know,” says Jett, handing over the death trap crutches like they might bite.
“He stayed on the line until two in the morning, Jett. And I’m pretty sure he has to be up and functioning not long after that.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she points at me. “Those are the actions of someone who loves you,” she sings.
“Stop,” I beg, not wanting to hear the same spiel again. “We’re just friends. Barely that at this point.”
“And now, you’re back in your hometown, hanging out with his kid sister, and calling him at night. If this isn’t a single-guardian hockey romance, then I’m not the best editor in Havenwood.”
“You’re the only editor in Havenwood.”
“My point exactly.” She grins. “Besides, from what Noah has told me, Silas is just as much a caretaker as your brother is when it comes to those he loves. And I’m telling you without seeing it myself. He. Loves. You.”
She leads the way into a small coffee shop on the corner of Maynard and Washington, her dark-brown locks twisted into an intricate braid down to the small of her back. The little shop also happens to be around the corner from the specialist that Silas set up.
I grudgingly gave in this morning after I realized the team’s athletic trainer had already told them to expect my call. Stupid misplaced guilt. I was still going to put it off, but a call from the coach’s wife, Hannah, pushed me to make the call.
The receptionist said they were booked for the next two weeks, but when I mentioned who referred me, the doctor took the call and told me to come in on his lunch break. A call to Jett and here we are.
I don’t know how I lucked out with the absolute best not-sister-in-law ever, but I’m thankful she and my brother found each other.
“Do you trust me with your drink choice?” she asks as we head toward the counter. At my nod, she starts talking in foreign coffee language. I’m not big on the fancy drinks, just that it’s iced and sweet. Since moving to Havenwood and going in on a coffee shop slash book store slash indie author services, Jett has become somewhat of a coffee connoisseur.
Once we have our drinks, we start the short trek around the corner to the doctor’s office. I take a sip and nearly moan at how inappropriately good it is while Jett laughs at my expense.
“What is in this thing, friend? So damn good,” I say as I suck down another gulp.
“It’s something Kelsey calls a Toasted Haven. It was one of the first drinks she created when we rebranded. It’s got graham crackers, caramel, chocolate, and marshmallow cream flavorings. Gives a little Christmas sparkle year-round. It’s even better frozen.”
My eyes widen as I chug more of the odd combination, all the sweet, tasty goodness of a s’more without sacrificing the fresh-ground coffee flavor.
As we step through the sliding glass doors into the medical building, I immediately locate the elevator. Jett hesitates for a split second, and I swear she takes a step toward the stairs.
“Please tell me you aren’t going to make me take the stairs,” I say, the sarcasm only slightly masking the edge of panic I feel at the thought of maneuvering up steps like this.
“Of course not.” She waves me off, but her unease at riding what she calls a “metal death trap” is evident. She got stuck in one during a storm, and it scarred her for life. Fun fact: that entrapment is how she and Noah met.
Jett eventually jabs the call button like it might eat her finger. When the doors open and we step in, she says, “At least it’s only two floors. Noah says smaller buildings like this typically use a hydraulic system instead of a traction elevator like the ones he works on.” As she spouts off random elevator facts, the elevator takes us up a floor without a hitch.
We step directly into the lobby of the orthopedic office, where a man in his late thirties steps around the desk with a welcoming smile. His dark-gray scrubs cling to his frame just enough to make it obvious the man actually uses his gym membership. He’s attractive, sure—strong jaw, green eyes, a touch of salt-and-pepper in dark hair—but he's not my type.
“Oakley Slater, I presume,” he says as we move closer.
