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Maybe that’s the key. Quit thinking and just feel. Feelings and my desire to have them are what landed me here.
I call the store and plan for it to be wrapped and delivered to Fynn’s apartment. For a fleeting second, I ponder flying up there to deliver it in person, or at least see what the sweater looks like next to Fynn’s eyes.
I can’t. The jet-setting around has to wait until the off season. The playoffs are looming and although we are in; we aren’t playing great. My line has been gelling fine, but the third and fourth lines are a hot mess and Logan is pulling his hair out trying to find the right combinations of players. One thing is for sure it doesn’t matter how many superstars you have on your team or how well your top line is performing, if the third and fourth lines aren’t performing as well as the top two…well, you might make it a couple of rounds in the playoffs, but you won’t be walking home with a Cup in June.
I look at my phone and call up Nandy’s number. Looking at the text exchanges. There haven’t been many of late. All initiated by me. All eliciting one or two-word answers from him. Actual phone calls. None of those.
I screwed up. I scared him off.
He’s just dealing with the injury recovery. It’s his left hand. That’s going to be a tough one for him. Space, he just needs space. Everything is fine.
Chapter thirty-six
“Mr. Archer, sir,” Kennedy calls out to me before I scoot past en route to the elevators.
I look up from my phone where I had been perusing my schedule for the evening at the club.
He steps out from behind the desk with a Nordstrom bag containing a neatly wrapped box. This was delivered, not shipped. I look at him, as if he would have an answer. He shrugs. I haven’t ordered anything. I’m expecting packages from New York, but again, those are being shipped and nothing from Nordstrom.
When I get into my apartment, I pull the wrapped package out of the bag with a mix of excitement and trepidation. I love gifts as much as anyone and surprises can be fun. But through the years I have had the occasional client cross the line with presents seeking more of a relationship away from the club than I am ever willing to give. And for a client to have something sent to my home instead of the club…
“Not sure what color the other one was…but this one made me think of your eyes.”
I tear open the box with all the grace of a five-year-old and toss everything to the floor as I lift the dark green cashmere hoodie out of the box.
Made me think of your eyes.
TJ Marshall has thought about my eyes. He knows what color they are. Of course he does, but…. he has thought about my eyes…he thought enough to pay attention to the shirt I mentioned was ruined by Nandy’s blood.
I’m not sure anyone has bought me anything so appropriate…so perfect…paid so close attention.
Thank you.
I text him.
His response is immediate.
I want a picture.
I spread the sweater out across the back of the couch and snap a photo for him.
Nice, but not exactly what I was hoping for.
Hmmm…and what were you hoping for?
I know damn well what he’s saying…but I want to hear him say it, anyway. Just in case I have it wrong…but…
Proof I got the right size. Winking emoji.
Nicely played Mr. Marshall.
I send the selfie and wait.
Nothing.
I wait some more. His initial responses were so instant…my phone buzzes in my hand and the fluttering of my heart comes to a dead stop.
In a meeting
