CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELLIOT
“What doyou mean you don’t have a favourite dinosaur?” I clutch the throw pillow to my chest and barely stifle a giggle. It bubbles up anyway, slipping past my lips because I feel… giddy. Downright giddy. And lighter than I have in years.
Arthur, however, is not giddy. But he’s not scowling either, which feels like a small miracle. He looks impossibly solid sitting on my couch, larger than life as always, his broad shoulders taking up more space than my cushions were ever designed for. His strong arms are folded across his chest, biceps straining against the fabric of his long sleeved T-shirt. The faint glow from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows over the sharp cut of his jaw. He glances at me, just long enough for me to catch the spark of amusement hiding in those stormy eyes, before he looks away again.
“I mean that I don’t have a favourite dinosaur,” he says, voice even and unbothered.
“What about when you were a kid?” I press. I try to imagine him small, carefree, grinning with sticky fingers and wide eyes—but it’s impossible to reconcile with what hejust told me about his father. How could anyone rob a child of simple joys like going to a friend’s birthday party? To put so much pressure on him?
Shawn had shoved hockey at Sam the moment he could toddle onto the ice, so sure that he’d love it like he did. At first, I thought it was sweet—that maybe it would bring them closer. And Sam was okay, sure, but not the best. Which was never good enough for Shawn.
“I don’t think I had a favourite dinosaur then, either,” Arthur admits quietly.
“Unacceptable,” I declare, leaning toward him, daring him to break. “Okay, fine. What were some of your other favourites, then?”
“Such as?” His brow arches, skeptical but humouring me.
“TV show?”
“Didn’t really watch any.”
“Sport? Oh wait.” I roll my eyes at myself. “Duh.”
That earns me a lip quirk. It’s gone almost immediately but I’ve already committed it to memory. My heart does a ridiculous little somersault.
I want to hoard those smiles, all of them. Build a trophy shelf and line it with every laugh, every grin, every softened look he lets slip when he forgets to guard himself. And I want them all to be mine.
“Oh! I know. Favourite hockey player?”
“Ray Bourque,” he answers immediately. “Great defenseman, great leader. Best of all, my dad fucking hated him.”
“Bonus.” I laugh.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Who was your favourite hockey player?”
I scrunch up my face in distaste. “I really didn’t have one.”
“Unacceptable.”
I giggle again. Good God, I’ve got to stop giggling. “It’sjust I never really followed hockey. My parents weren’t fans.” I sneak a glance at him, debating on whether to tell him something. Oh, screw it. “I remember there were kids in my class with your jersey.”
“Christ, that makes me feel old.” He covers his eyes with a hand. His hands are so big. So masculine. “Was that in junior high?”
“Nope. Elementary.”
“So fucking old.”
“I mostly remember you from those body wash commercials.”
“Please stop talking.”
“I always wondered how long those took to shoot.”
