“Look,” he says, “I know you can get a Lyft, but I don’t want you going outside, waiting for a ride in front of everyone, with people asking you questions. You shouldn’t have to deal with that right now.”
I can picture the scene. It sounds so awful, my throat tightens. “Clementine would probably kill you if you didn’t drive me.”
He scoffs. “That’s not why I’m offering. No—make thatinsisting.”
I guess it wouldn’t be asking too much…and he does seem to be pretty determined. “I need to go put these stuffies in a storage room for tomorrow’s pickup. Can I have ten minutes?”
Lake gestures to his athletic shirt, his gym shorts, his slides. His dark, messy, still-sweaty hair hits his jawline,giving him a broody rock star vibe. “Good. I need time to shower.”
Oh. Right. Of course. “Yes, shower. A shower’s good.”
His full lips quirk up the slightest bit. “A shower is very,verygood.”
“It is,” I say, distracted in a way I didn’t see coming.
The hockey star points to the stairwell door about twenty feet away. “I’ll be waiting for you in ten. Right here.”
“You can shower and get dressed in ten minutes?”
He laughs once. “I can.”
“I’ll be here. After your very good shower,” I quip, mostly so he knows I’m not a total emotional wreck.
Even though I absolutely am.
“See you soon,” he says, then waits for me to walk away first.
It’s like having a bodyguard in the form of your friend’s grumpy, strapping pro-athlete brother.
I push the cart of stuffies down the hall, still incognito-ish in the hoodie from my cubicle and the hat I grabbed from the swag shelf in the hope no one would notice me.
But Lake did, and he wants to help.
A hockey player I work with is kinder to me than the guy I’d thought wanted to marry me.
It’s official—I have the world’s worst romantic instincts.
4
OFFICIALLY TERRIBLE
LAKE
I fiddle with the console in my car, trying to find the right music for this moment. Do I blast a breakup tune? Some kind of your-boyfriend-is-a-dick song?
Correction: ex-boyfriend.
I fight off a stupid smile. Is it terrible that I’m glad my sister’s clever, pretty, upbeat friend is suddenly single? But I push those thoughts out of my head, just like I’ve done with all the other Remy-centric thoughts that have landed in my head for the last year.
I find a promising playlist—something that sounds a little like the Arctic Monkeys and a lot like the kind of music you’d play after a really shitty day.
“Good?”
Remy nods from the passenger seat, clutching a bottle of champagne against her chest.
“What’s your address?”
“I’ll do it.” She leans closer to punch the address into the car’s GPS, and I catch a hint of her shampoo. Something floral and clean, and far too tempting.
