“Great. Go do that.”
He turns without another word, walking back into the room with a lumbering grace that’s slightly more thoughtful now. Naomi exhales and wipes her palms against her skirt.
She watches as he approaches a kid and lowers himself onto one knee. The boy in a Whalers jersey and cap, a feeding tube taped under his nose, looks up, wide-eyed.
“Nice hat,” he says. “You want to trade it for something cooler?”
The kid blinks up at him.
Tall retrieves his goalie stick from where he’d placed it against the wall and holds it out. “This is mine. It’s cursed, probably. Do not use it for evil.”
The kid’s mouth drops open. He clutches the stick, looking at it in awe.
Tall guides the boy’s tiny hands over the grip. “Like this,” he murmurs. “But, you know…cooler. Meaner.”
The boy mimics him, grin stretching from ear to ear. The stick is twice his size, but you’d think he was ready for the NHL.
And Tall—the Sandwich Swindler, Mr. I-Don’t-Share—actually smiles. Crooked. Soft. Like maybe he’s not made entirely of stone after all.
Naomi’s stomach lurches. No. Nope. Absolutely not. She refuses to be taken in by that.
She forces her eyes away, busying herself with her tablet.
Naomi is one item away from death by avalanche. Rolled-up banners slide off her shoulder, the box of mini jerseys in her arms threatens to blow out at the seams, and a tote of leftover swag thumps against her thigh like a clingy toddler. If she makes it across the parking lot without a full-blown yard sale, it’ll be a miracle worthy of its own press release.
Naturally, she’s alone. Mila has mysteriously vanished—though Naomi’s not dumb. She saw how Mila’s eyes kept drifting toward Theo, the hunky defenseman. If Mila’s off batting her lashes at Mister Tall, Dark, and Tragic, Naomi can’t even be mad. They’d look disgustingly good together.
Richard, meanwhile, disappeared twenty minutes into the visit to take a Very Important Call and has yet to reappear for cleanup.
Which leaves Naomi to play pack mule.
She wrestles everything against her ribs, muttering curses under her breath, when a low, lazy drawl cuts through the night behind her.
“Interesting.”
She freezes.
Tall is leaning against an enormous black truck, arms crossed, looking wholly unimpressed.
“Why are you carrying all of that?” he asks, voice flat. Curious. Like he’s genuinely puzzled.
Naomi shifts the weight higher on her hip. “Because the marketing elves were busy.”
He blinks.
She squints up at him. “That was sarcasm.”
“I got that,” he says slowly. “I just didn’t expect you to actually carry it all yourself.”
She jabs the car key at the rental, which chirps obligingly. “Wow. Thank you for that deeply moving display of concern. I’ll treasure it always.”
He stays where he is. Not moving to help. Not offering some smug one-liner. Just...observing. Like she’s some kind of human science experiment.
Naomi grits her teeth and wrestles the trunk open with her elbow. She heaves the box inside with a grunt, followed by the banner tubes and the bag of giveaway items she may or may not fantasize about setting on fire later. When she straightens, her heel snags on the curb and she stumbles—an awkward little lurch that makes her want to evaporate on the spot.
Tall tilts his head.
“You good?” he asks.
