“Seriously.” I try not to let my voice betray how humorous I think his concern is. “We’ll be good. If I have questions, I’ll call.”
He nods once, resolved, and bends down to talk to Goose. “You be good for Maya, okay, buddy?”
The dog lazily blinks at his owner before promptly falling back asleep.
With a deep chuckle, Cole straightens and levels a serious look at me. “He likes to watch me play, so if you could turn the game on for him, that’d be great.”
My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding me.”
“Why would I be kidding?” He frowns, his brows furrowed. “He’s a big hockey fan.”
“He’s a big hockey fan,” I repeat dumbly.
Maybe he’s had one too many hits to the head, because there’s no way Goose knows what the hell is going on when I’m barely beginning to get the hang of it.
Cole tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and throws me a lopsided smile. “Mm-hmm. You gonna watch with him, baby?”
The pet name grips my libido like a vise, but I tamp down on the need that threatens to overtake me. Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “You should probably get going.”
“Are you kicking me out of my house?”
“You have a flight soon and you’re dawdling.”
“Maybe I just like spending time with you.” He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. Then, scooping up his duffel, he strolls to the front door. “Don’t forget to text if you need anything.”
What I need is a lobotomy, considering all I want to do is bury my face in his chest and soak in his attention.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve given in to the temptation to snoop. Yes, it may be considered a breach of trust, but he never explicitly told menotto. Plus, the man suggested I sleep in his bed. What does he expect? Besides, I may as well familiarize myself with my temporary lodgings. If he’s a secret axe murderer, I’d like to find out now and not further down the line.
Goose watches me move around with mild interest but doesn’t bother moving from his spot in front of the fireplace. He probably thinks I’m an idiot, with the way I’m tiptoeing around when there’s no one here to catch me.
Cole’s kitchen is annoyingly boring. Based on the sparkly, clean condition of the counters and appliances, I doubt he spends much time in here. The fridge is mostly empty—nothing but a couple of apples, half a bag of carrots, and several bottles of salad dressing—but the freezer is stocked full of frozen meals. And not the Lean Cuisine kind. These are home-cooked and packaged nicely in glass Tupperware containers. Huh. So he’s a meal-prepper. That makes sense, given his busy schedule.
His junk drawer is equipped with a few takeout menus—which I didn’t know were still a thing, considering Google exists—and a slew of pens, each with a hotel name printed on it.
“Onto the next room,” I murmur. My voice echoes off the high ceilings, leaving a creepy chill at the back of my neck. I’m not used to so much quiet. At home, there’s always some background noise: the clank of the furnace kicking on, the humming of the fridge, my upstairs neighbor.
I check the coat closet in the hallway next, but I regret my decision the moment I open the door and a mountain of hockey gear tumbles out. The head of a cracked hockey stick smacks the sensitive spot between my neck and shoulder, and I stumble over the shin pads at my feet.
The clattering and crashing sounds interest Goose enough to rouse him from his comfortable position. As he approaches, he looks at me with what I’m certain is judgment.Yeah, yeah.
Staring down at the ground, I consider my options. Obviously, I have to put everything back, but based on the cleanliness and order of Cole’s kitchen, I have a feeling he doesn’t just shove stuff in the closet, slam the door closed, and hope for the best.
Unfortunately for him, in the end, that’s exactly how I tackle clean-up.
Okay. Where to next?
The bathroom, laundry room, and dining room reveal nothing exciting. In fact, they contain very few personal details. He wasn’t kidding when he said he hasn’t changed much about the condo since he purchased it. I resist the urge to snoop in his bedroom and instead head for the bookshelf. It’s definitely for aesthetic and decorative purposes, but it’s stocked with some of the classics and a few good memoirs.
Eventually, I lie on his couch—which is comfier than my bed—with Goose and my book. As far as days off go, it’s a pretty damn good one. The only issue arises when it’s time for bed.
“Goose, come here.”
He sits in the doorway, his dark brown eyes fixed on me.
I pat the guest room bed in a pathetic attempt to lure him in. Clearly, this isn’t his first rodeo. Not with the way he continues to stare me down without breaking eye contact. Maybe he has to go to the bathroom? I force myself out of the comfortable bed and shuffle to the back door, but Goose doesn’t follow me. Doubling back, I find him pawing at Cole’s bedroom door.
“Dad’s not home, buddy,” I tell him, using a high-pitched voice I always find myself using when speaking to animals. “Let’s go sleep in the guest room. C’mon.”
