The little traitorpurrs.
“No fucking way.” I stare, stunned. “You hate everyone.”
Carina smirks up at me, one hand scratching the side of Gremlin’s chin like she’s a practiced cat whisperer. “Maybe she just has taste.”
Gremlin flops onto her side with a happy grunt, exposing her belly as though she’s never once clawed someone to death for trying.
“You bit Walton again last week,” I tell the cat, who promptly ignores me. “You drew blood.”
“She’s perfect,” Carina says smugly, giving one last chin scritch before rising.
Gremlin twines around her legs like she’s claiming her, and I watch them both for a beat, completely thrown.
“Want the tour?” I ask, shaking myself internally.
“Sure.” Carina nods, brushing fur from her hands. “Impress me.”
I walk her through the downstairs rooms, feeling like a glorified real estate agent. We go through the kitchen, living areas, and the small office I barely use, where she noticeseverything.
The photos on the office wall—me as a toddler between my parents, barely walking yet. One of me at thirteen, arm slung around Harry’s neck after a win. Another from the Storm’s most recent Cup win—Jake with Charlie and the kids, Eli and Tamara, Logan in his rookie year, grinning with his arm raised, Chase flipping off the person behind the camera who was, incidentally, Zoe. And I’m in the back, smiling but still somehow looking serious.
“Your family wall?” She quietly studies every person in the photos.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything else, just nods silently and takes them in for a second longer, then follows me back toward the kitchen.
The sliding doors open to the backyard, and I push them wide open. It’s past sunset now, but the garden’s still visible in the ambient light from the patio and outdoor lighting. There’s a line of squat wooden boxes along the back fence line—my beehives, tucked into the edge of the property.
“You keep bees?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yeah. For honey.”
She turns, blinking. “Youmake honey?”
“It’s not a euphemism.”
A short laugh escapes her. “Didn’t think it was, I just… didn’t expect it.”
There’s amusement in her tone, but it’s not mockery. She’s intrigued more than anything else, and the way that makessomething shift in my ribs throws me. Because that means she thinks she knows me, or at least wants to.
And I want her to.
I point out the fire pit ring further down the backyard. There’s charcoal dust still visible, the mismatched chairs I’ve never replaced, a cracked beer bottle that someone—likely Chase—forgot to bring back inside. A half-burned marshmallow stick resting on the bricks, probably Meadow’s.
“Storm guys come here a lot?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And their families. We do a Sunday brunch thing, usually at their places. But the guys like to come up here to hang, too. Mostly in the off-season, or if we’re off a win and someone doesn’t wanna deal with crowds.”
“And you let them?”
I glance at her. “What, you think I’d say no?”
She shrugs. “Just doesn’t seem like your thing.”
“It’s not.” I pause. “But they are.”
There’s something unreadable in her face at that, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she turns slowly in place, taking it all in. The house, the garden, the bees, the view.
