“There’s definitely something to tell,” Marcus says.
“Hey, if he doesn’t want to talk, we can leave him alone,” I say.
“Want to talk about your love life then?” Bode asks.
“Why don’t we talk about if Noah and Graham are going to get married?” I deflect.
“Seriously?” Noah whines. “What is with all the love talk today?”
“You started it.” Bode gives him a satisfied grin. “Only right you have to deal with it too.”
“Noah wants to win a Stanley Cup together before he proposes,” Graham answers for him.
“And I didn’t want to say it so I don’t jinx anything.” Noah rolls his eyes, but he has the same look on his face as the rest of the guys.
That same happy, in love with the best person in the world face.
Does my face look like that when I think about Chloe? Staring at myself in the mirror, I answer my own question.
Yeah, it does.
And it fucking sucks when the person you love most in the world has no idea how you feel.
And will never know if she has anything to say about it.
Being in love sucks.
Chapter Nine
CHLOE
“Not bad if I do say so myself,” I say out loud to no one.
Inspecting the newly soldered ring, I’m happy with how it turned out. Considering I’ve messed up the first three, and nearly burned myself again, the fact that it’s a ring?
Yeah, I’m pretty proud of it.
When I decided to go all in on this jewelry-making business, I knew it would be hard. I loved getting to create things like this back in high school, but I didn’t think about the learning curve.
At least this one resembles a circle. I guess the tenth time is the charm. Now to figure out how to get the gemstone on it.
Having been in my own studio apartment for two months now, I’ve finally found the best setup for jewelry making. There wasn’t enough room for a kitchen table between the half wall that separated my bedroom space and the kitchen. The living room barely fits my small love seat and coffee table.
A pop-up card table isn’t ideal for starting my own business, but it’s what I’m working with.
Before I can sort everything out for the next part of the tutorial—thank God for others on the Internet that know how to do it—a knock echoes around my small studio.
Swinging open the front door, my friend Erica rushes into my apartment, dropping her bag on the loveseat.
She greets me with a massive hug. “You’re alive!”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because all I got from you after the wedding was ‘I need to lie low’ and that was it?”
Erica swings her gorgeous, long black hair over her shoulder, piercing me with a knowing look.
“Hey.” I point a finger at her. “I texted you my new address.”
