“If I ever go to the NHL, I’m not hiring Andy,” Aiden says from the back seat.
Willow’s eyes widen, and she looks at her nephew in the rearview mirror. “If you’ve already decided that you’re going to the NHL, does that mean that you want me to put you in hockey, buddy?”
“Yeah.” I glance back in time to see him shrug. “It could be good, I guess. Ry says I’m not too old.”
She presses her lips together, and then they tip up in a small smile. “I don’t think you’re too old either.”
Wills squeezes my hand, and for the first time since I saw her this morning, her shoulders relax.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“I didn’t do anything.”
She just squeezes my hand again and shakes her head once. “Thank you.”
Chapter Nine
Willow
Now that I don’t have to worry about sleeping through my alarm every morning, you’d think that I would sleep like a baby in a milk coma.
But no. Not me. Not this girl.
I’ve always slept well in this room, and I know my boy is safe out at the bunkhouse. In the three days we’ve been living here, I’ve managed to get so much work done in my new studio, I’m giddy about it. I feel at home here, and I’m not uncomfortable at all.
But can I sleep?
No.
And why, you ask?
Because of the hot hockey player two doors down.
Make thatformerhockey player. I’m so damn proud of Ryker for standing up to Andy and telling him off. I wanted to reach through that phone and punch that guy’s nose. I’ve met him a couple of times through the years, and I never liked him. I never believed that he had Ryker’s best interests at heart. Andy has always been all about the money, and sometimes that meant too much work for Ry.
I hate that guy.
But even that isn’t why I can’t sleep. I don’t know what to do about all this lust I’m feeling. I think he feels it too. He hasn’t said so, but we’vehad moments when he touches me, when I think he wants to kiss me, and I know he’s not oblivious to the chemistry.
But if he admits to himself that he feels it, he’s holding back.
And that makes me want to hold back, too, because I’d be absolutely fucking mortified if I made a move and he rejected me.
I don’t think I could come back from that. I don’t know if our friendship would survive, because ... how do you get over that?
So, instead, I ogle the sexy man and have these stupid daydreams about what it would be like if he railed me all night long, and I get myself so worked up, I can’t sleep.
I’ve never been good at getting myself off, so I’m simply perpetually keyed up.
“There’s some ice cream downstairs,” I mumble to myself and push the covers off my body. I’m in a thin tank top, because my usual pajama top is in the wash, and a pair of sleep shorts that have seen better days.
Not that sneaking downstairs to eat Cherry Garcia out of the carton is worthy of a fashion show.
Besides, Ryker’s asleep.
Soundlessly, I open my door and pad down the hallway and descend the stairs. Ryker had little night-lights installed throughout the house, so it’s not pitch black, and they help me find my way to the kitchen, where I turn on the light over the stovetop, retrieve a spoon from the drawer, and then open the freezer and pull out the pint of ice cream.
I pop off the top and take a spoonful, moaning as it melts in my mouth.
