“I’ll help.”
“It’s okay.” Her little chin sets and her lips thin.
I bite back a grin. She’s cute when she’s pissed. “Don’t argue with me, Ayla. Just accept the help.”
She gives me a slitty-eyed look. “I don’t want help from you.”
“You don’t want help from anyone.”
Her lips purse. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. You hate needing help. And you hate asking for it.”
She huffs out a long breath. She knows I’m right. “Says you. You hate asking for help, too. You hate when you’re not in control.”
“Yeah.” I won’t argue with that.
“Tell me about Emily.”
My head jerks back. That change of topic gave me whiplash. “You mean Emma? What about her?”
She shrugs, looking down at the glass of water in her hands. “How long have you been seeing her? Is it serious? Is she nice?”
“Oh.” I don’t want to talk about Emma. “Yeah, she’s nice. Not much else to tell.”
She gives me a skeptical look, one corner of her mouth lifted.
“Why aren’tyoudating?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“I told you. I’m not interested in dating. Men are just another job. Times are different now. I can have a bank account and a credit card and own property.”
“Men are just another job?” I hike up one eyebrow.
“Yeah. You can’t deny that. You have a demanding career. That meant I took on a lot of the household responsibilities.”
I stare at her. “That’s true,” I say slowly. It’s true of a lot of hockey wives, especially ones with kids. Hockey wives are saints to put up with all the bullshit in their lives when they marry a hockey player. “I didn’t know it was a problem for you. And I helped with things when I could.”
She drops her gaze. “Yeah. Well. Now I realize I want to be by myself.”
After we separated, I waited with growing dread to find out she was seeing someone else. I figured it wouldn’t be long; she’s gorgeous and sweet and I was sure guys would be knocking on her door every damn day. Maybe they were. As time passed, though, the dread faded. Maybe because she never actually has dated someone else? That I know of. Or because I just got over it? I don’t know. I still don’t like the idea. Like I despised the way Norm looked at her. But what can I say about that? We’re divorced. Almost.
The server arrives with our food and we dig in. The veggie bowl is delicious and Ayla cuts into steaming hot fish that looks really good, but is not on my diet. I’m not on a “lose weight” diet, it’s just a healthy diet with lots of protein and fruits and vegetables. But I can’t resist a French fry. I reach across the table and snag one off her plate.
As I pop it into my mouth, she fixes me with a reproving look. “Hey.”
“Sorry. It was automatic.” We’ve always stolen French fries from each other. And neither of us minded.
She sighs. “Fine.”
We fall silent as we eat. I watch her across the table. There’s still something irresistibly sweet about her. She looks delicate, with a small bone structure, heart-shaped face, and big, dark-blue eyes. Her pale-blonde hair curves just under her chin, withlong bangs that skim over her eyes. But she’s not delicate. She survived one of the worst tragedies that can happen to someone. Yeah, it was hell; nobody should have to go through that. I wanted to make it easier for her. I wanted to take away the pain and help her move on. But I couldn’t. And that’s my greatest failure in life.
“Why do you look like you want to punch someone?”
My head jerks up and I’m pulled out of my funk.
“Hopefully not me,” she says lightly. “I know you’re here against your will.”
“Jesus. Don’t even joke about that. I would never,everhit you.” I glare at her.
