“Maybe she’ll come to a game with us? Your seats are empty most of the time,” she says, then winces a little. “Tara and Jim are so much fun when they make it.”
“I’ll ask her. Her schedule’s kind of crazy right now, but it should ease up once they get into a groove.” I hope it does, anyway.
“I can only imagine the pressure she’s under.” Hannah snaps the lids onto the containers.
“She’s working with that famous country producer, right?” Logan asks.
“Boone, yeah,” I confirm.
“Taylor?” Hannah hums a tune that I don’t recognize. “I remember one of his songs from when I was in high school.”
“Oh yeah.” Logan nods. “What was that one called?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t remember. He’s good, though. I always wondered why he stopped making his own music.”
I shrug. Maybe I should look him up. All I know is what Summer’s told me, and right now, my only opinion is that he’s an asshole for keeping her in the studio on Christmas.
Logan wraps his arms around Hannah’s waist and pulls her close. She kisses him over her shoulder.
And that’s my cue.
“Thanks for this.” I take the bag she’s packed and make a quick round of goodbyes.
On the drive home, I go a little faster than necessary, every mile marked by the same thought:
Get to Summer.
FOURTEEN
I readthrough our conversation one more time, then typeHomeand toss my phone into my bag. I sink back into the seat and try to muster the energy to get out of my truck and to the front door.
Twelve hours in a studio with a man who communicates in grunts, followed by a white-knuckle drive—yeah, this Christmas is taking the crown for the worst one ever.
All I want are my pajamas and a dark room.
Merry freakin’ Christmas.
I peel off my gloves in the foyer and pause. All the lights are still on, and I’m not met with Gracie’s usual dramatic monologue. For a second, I wonder if Tara stopped by, until I remember she’s out of town.
Miles rounds the corner from the kitchen.
I stop short, one boot half unlaced.
“What’re you doing here?” The words tumble out.
I have no idea what time it is, only that the sky is already midnight blue and it’swaytoo early for a house full of hockey players to be done with a party.
“I came back early.” He gives a small shrug and tucks his hands into his front pockets.
“Do you ditch parties for all of yourfriends?”
“Yeah. I would.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Then he adds, softer, “I didn’t want you to be alone.”
I blink. “You didn’t?”
A lump rises in my throat. I’m usually the one who shows up early, who drives the extra mile, who makes sure no one’s alone. I don’t know what to do when it’s the other way around.
So I focus on unlooping my scarf instead.
