Her laughter has me smiling despite myself. “There are, like, thirteen seasons of this show.”
“At least watch season one. Then if you hate it that much, you can bow out,” she says, a hopeful smile on her face.
I don’t have the willpower to say no, so I simply sigh.
Her eyes light up. Yeah, she knows she won that argument.
With a look at the small silver watch on her left wrist, she swears. “You’re more than welcome to stay, but I need to get decorating if I want to be out of here by seven.”
She stands, yawning.
“What’s at seven?” I ask, trying not to stare at her chest now that I know she’s braless.
“Award ceremony and then dinner with my parents.” She stretches her arms overhead, arching her back.
“Award for what?”
She nods, her face completely serene. “The city of Boston is presenting me with the award for best ass on this side of the Atlantic.”
I know she’s kidding, but I can’t help that my attention dips to her backside. It’s worthy of an accolade, in my opinion.
She huffs mock-indignantly at my complete lack of shame. “You done checking me out?”
“No,” I admit. I could spend all day checking her out and still want more. “What’s the award actually for, though?”
“My dad’s being honored by the Massachusetts Historical Society for work he did on the Adams Family Papers.”
Surprise flashes through me like a lightning bolt. “I wrote my capstone paper comparing Paul Giamatti’s portrayal of John Adams in the HBO miniseries to what we know about Adams from his own writings and correspondence.”
“Oh God,” Kennedy says through a moan. “My dad issogoing to want to meet you.”
“You told your parents about us?” I ask, a dose of dread drowning out my excitement.
“No, but now I’m thinking I should,” she says with a teasing smile. “The daughter they constantly worry about dating a history-obsessed hockey player? Don’t be surprised if my mom proposes to you on my behalf.”
I study her, every perfect line and curve. “Why do they worry about you?”
Sure, she has her eccentricities, but she’s a good friend and she’s smart and funny. And she has a good head on her shoulders. I’ve yet to note one issue that legitimately calls for concern.
“Don’t all parents worry?” Vulnerability flashes across her face. It’s brief, so quick, I almost miss it. But then it morphs into a look of excitement and her entire face lights up, freckles bunching together as she grins. “Did I tell you I get the keys to the kitchen on Friday?”
A little of that excitement makes its way through me, too. “That’s great. Congrats, Kenn. Do you need help getting anything set up?”
The offer is out of my mouth before I can second-guess it. And I don’t understand why. I hate moving. I would rather have a root canal without Novocain than move, which, yeah, for a hockey player who can be traded at a moment’s notice, isn’t ideal. Yet I just willingly offered to help her move loads of kitchen shit.
She purses her lips in thought. “Actually, I might. I’m going to do a big resupply of ingredients and the works at MetroMart, and another set of hands would be helpful.”
“MetroMart?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head, frowning down at me.
“What’s at MetroMart?”
“The portal to Narnia.” She manages to keep a flat expression for about five seconds before falling into a fit of giggles. “What isn’t at MetroMart is the question, Cam. Where else can you go in for a rotisserie chicken and leave with a kayak and a diamond ring as well?”
Now I’m the one frowning. She wants me to go to MetroMart with her? That sounds about as fun as watching paint dry.
“Oh, c’mon,” she says with her brightest smile. “It’ll be fun.”
