“I appreciate that. I promise not to practice at two in the morning.”
He grins. “I appreciate that. Anyway, like I said, I’ll let you get settled. You hungry? We could go out for dinner, I could order in, or we can see what’s in the fridge.”
“You don’t know what’s in your own fridge?” I can’t disguise the shock in my voice.
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Yes, I know what’s in my fridge. I mean, more or less. I meant, we can see what you feel like eating from what’s in the fridge. Better?”
“Yeah. And here I was assuming you had someone shopping and cooking for you too. A cleaner, a personal trainer, a chef …”
One of his eyebrows arches up. “The team has plenty of trainers, I don’t need a dedicated one just for me. Unless I’m rehabbing an injury or something. But that’s more physical therapist than personal trainer for like a workout or something. And I cook for myself, thank you very much. At least if I eat at home.”
“And how often do you do that?”
A shrug. “Most of the time. When I’m not on the road, at least.”
“Do you get injured often?”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t say often. I mean, it can happen. Hockey’s a full-contact sport. Going at high speeds on ice, guys slamming into each other going for the puck, the occasional roughing …” Another shrug. “Things happen. But no, I’m not particularly prone to injuries. Bumps and bruises are normal, of course, but nothing that has me missing games. But back to dinner. Eat out, order in, or do you want me to cook something?”
“Do you have a preference?” It feels like a cop-out to ask. He’s asking what I want, after all. But I already feel like I’m putting him out just by being here. I don’t want to add to that with annoying demands.
Squinting, he looks me over. “I’ll make us something. Do you prefer steak or chicken?”
“I’m easy.”
His lips quirk, and he rubs a hand over his mouth as though to wipe away his smile. “Noted. Steak it is. I’ll let you get settled.”
“Thanks, Jason.”
He waves me off as he leaves the room, pulling the door most of the way closed behind him.
I stand there for a minute, unmoving, waiting, though I’m not sure for what, exactly. Him to come back in? Some signal? When I hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen, that’s apparently my cue. I come unfrozen and move my violin so it’s next to the desk and out of the walkway. Then I lay my suitcase down and open it, pulling out my clothes and hanging them in the closet or storing them in the empty dresser. The rest of my stuff will arrive in a few days, so for now, it’s just what I brought with me on the plane.
It only takes about fifteen or twenty minutes to get everything unpacked and arranged, and after that … I just stand in the middle of the room, staring at it. It’s nice, though it doesn’t feel real.
I guess this is home now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jason
I pullout everything I need to make a good steak, then go out to the balcony to get the grill warmed up. Once back inside, I open the packages, season the meat, and set it aside. I prefer using a marinade, but I hadn’t planned ahead, so this is my second-best option. I suppose I could’ve gone with the chicken, but steak is my favorite, and I kinda want to show off for Hailey. I can grill and cook and … make a mean salad. I cut up some baby potatoes, oil and season them, and pop them in the oven to roast. Then I get out a head of broccoli, chop it into small pieces, toss them with oil, salt, and pepper, then load them onto skewers for grilling. Grilled broccoli is delicious, if I do say so myself.
I pull out a bagged salad and dump it in a bowl, hesitating before adding the dressing. Not everyone likes the same kind of dressing. Or the same amount. I even knew a girl who ate salad without any dressing. Occasionally she’d do lemon juice and olive oil or the barest hint of vinaigrette, but usually just greens and cheese and a few other toppings. This one has candiedpecans and dried cranberries with a pomegranate vinaigrette, which I thought sounded delicious.
After tossing it all together in the bowl to make sure it’s well mixed, I decide to pour the dressing into two little bowls. She can add as much as she wants once it’s plated up, and I’ll do the same.
Once the sides are ready to go, I take the steak and broccoli out to the balcony, frowning and casting a glance toward the hallway when I realize Hailey hasn’t come out yet. It hasn’t beenthatlong, but she also didn’t have a ton of stuff. I kinda figured she’d come hang out once she was settled. Maybe she wants a little time to herself, though. I sometimes do after spending the day flying.
With a shrug, I focus on grilling the steak. I could easily—and sometimes do—leave it alone for a few minutes, but since I’m cooking for Hailey, I want to make sure I don’t accidentally overcook it. I probably should’ve asked how she likes her steak …
Oh, well. I’ll make one medium and one medium rare. I prefer medium rare but am fine with either. And if she likes hers more medium well, or even well done, then I can cook it for a few more minutes for her.
I keep a close eye on the broccoli too, making sure it gets crispy, but not burnt. Once everything’s off the grill, I bring it back inside, tenting the plate with foil while I finish with the potatoes and let the steak rest a few minutes.
But Hailey still hasn’t come out. The food’s ready, other than needing to be put on individual plates, so I head to her room and lightly knock on the cracked open door. “Hailey? Food’s ready.”
Pushing the door open, I see her on the bed, fast asleep. It looks like she sat down for a minute, then just leaned sideways until her head hit the pillow, her feet still hanging off the bed.
