Why am I sharing my weird naming habits with this man? What is wrong with me?
Probably the scent. That evergreen and old books combination is doing strange things to my brain chemistry.
"I think that's..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Endearing."
Endearing. He thinks I am endearing.
I do not know how to process that information so I am going to file it away and panic about it later.
As if responding to my bold declaration of her continued functionality, Beatrice the Suitcase chooses that exact moment to prove me spectacularly wrong.
There is a groan of stressed metal.
A pop that sounds vaguely medical.
And then both remaining wheels detach from the frame simultaneously, rolling away down the pathway in opposite directions like they have finally had enough of my denial and are making a desperate bid for freedom.
We both gawk in stunned silence.
One wheel veers left, bouncing off the edge of a decorative bush before spinning to a wobbly stop near a garden bed. The other rolls right with surprising velocity, disappearing around the corner of the building like it has somewhere important to be.
I stare at the now completely wheel-less suitcase.
The suitcase stares back, listing pathetically to one side like a ship taking on water.
Etienne stares at both of us.
The silence stretches for a beat.
Two.
Three…
"Hmm." I cringe, feeling heat flood my cheeks. "I think... that is the universe's way of telling me my luggage is done for."
Etienne laughs.
And not just a polite chuckle or a restrained snort. A real, genuine, throw-your-head-back laugh that echoes across the evening air and does completely unfair things to my stomach.
"Yeah, fuck." He is grinning now, those storm-blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that transforms his entire face from quietly handsome to devastatingly attractive. "That is totally the universe trying to give you some signs. Very aggressive signs. Very dramatic, wheel-detaching signs."
"Maybe Beatrice has been trying to retire for years, and I just was not listening," I admit, fighting my own smile.
"I think Beatrice has been screaming into the void and you have been willfully ignoring her cries for help." He wipes hiseyes, still chuckling. "Hold on. I will get them for you. Cannot have random wheels rolling around the campus causing havoc."
He jogs off down the pathway, his long legs eating up the distance as he chases after the escaped wheel components.
And I definitely do not want to watch him go.
I certainly do not notice the way his shoulders move under his hoodie, all lean muscle and athletic grace. Or how the way his dark curls bounce slightly with each step, catching the golden light. I’m oblivious to the way his jeans fit just right, hugging a backside that has no business being that well-shaped on someone who spends most of his time standing in a goal crease.
Okay. Fine.
I am watching.
Sue me.
He bends to retrieve the first wheel from beside the bush, and I get a very educational view of his back. The way his hoodie stretches across his shoulder blades that are broader than I initially realized. The hint of muscle definition visible even through the fabric. The narrow waist that tapers down to...
