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These messages aren’t death threats or nasty hate mail. These are even more interview requests and brand deal offers and modeling auditions. And I have messages from a bunch of talent agents and casting directors wanting to meet with me.
What is happening?!
I’m trying to make sense of it all when Nolan saunters in, carrying a tray. “I hope you’re hungry because I may have gone a bit overboard with the scrambled eggs.”
With my head still in the clouds, I only half-hear him. “Um, huh?”
“Breakfast,” he says, his chin motioning to the feast on the tray in his hands.
Smells of toast and well-done bacon fill the room. He sets the tray down gently across my lap, leaning down to press his lips to my forehead as he does.
His skin smells clean and his breath smells minty. His hair is wet, too. He’s clearly gotten his day off on the right foot while I’ve been in here, sleeping like the dead.
“Thank you.” I force myself to smile at him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, instantly looking concerned.
Shit—what am I even doing?
He’s made all this wonderful food, and he’s being the ultimate morning-after guy. Meanwhile, my mind is barely here in this room. I’m being a distracted jerk. I feel bad.
Forcing myself to close out of my email, I set my phone down out of reach, so I can give him my undivided attention. “Your lips aren’t on mine. That’s what’s wrong.”
I move the breakfast tray onto Nolan’s other night stand. I pull him down in a greedy kiss.
“Dessert before breakfast?” he asks, cheekily waggling his eyebrows.
I laugh. “Yes, please.”
Nolan is the most delicious distraction, helping me avoid the crux of my dilemma. Sometime soon, I’ll have to face the career opportunities sitting in my inbox.But not right this minute.
Right this minute, I enjoy Nolan’s lips.
32
NOLAN
“Stop gloating, Ronan. The game was so close. We almost had you.” Felix wheezes, limping in the direction of the bleachers on the edge of the community center’s basketball court.
“Yeah,” Mason agrees, wiping his forehead with the hem of his drenched T-shirt. “My bum knee definitely didn’t help matters.”
Archer rubs the base of his spine as he drags himself toward a bench. “And my bad back keeps getting worse and worse. Plus, the teams weren’t fair anyway. The two of you have been playing competitive sports your whole lives.”
I scoff. “Unfair teams? You can’t be serious. We played two versus three.”
“And we still kicked your asses,” my twin brother brags.
The guys and I haven’t been able to get a hold of Darius all day. So we ended up playing with Ronan and me on one team against Archer, Felix and Mason.
Even still, the three sore losers talk shit and make up a laundry list of excuses about why they didn’t perform better.
Ronan glances at me and smirks. “Whiners. All of them,” he mutters out the side of his mouth.
Playing sports has always been a great tension-reliever for me. When I was on the road to a hockey career, I would revel in the feel of being on the ice. Nothing felt better.
For a long time after I quit playing professionally, I couldn’t bring myself to get out there. It was too painful to get a taste of something I couldn’t have anymore.
But nowadays, I like to lace the skates back up every now and then, and remember that there’s a little more to me than just dad and bar owner. And I may not play professionally anymore, but I can still skate circles around my hockey captain twin brother. Even if the bastard would never admit it.
