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I try to keep the blush at bay. Compliments aren’t easy for me to accept and especially not for being an author. Imposter syndrome is real… even five years after being a successful author.
When I don’t say anything, he speaks again.
“It’s a compliment. You’re allowed to accept those.”
I give a little chuckle. “I know. Thank you. It’s just that my dad isn’t exactly on board with it.”
I quickly realize how that sounds, and I try to back down my comment. “I mean, he supports me. He sends me flowers whenever my new release comes out. It’s just that he thinks this is all a phase.”
And that I’m lucky to have Daniel for so that he can support me when it inevitably fizzles out. I can't even imagine how my father would panic if I came clean and told my parents that Daniel and I are on a break right now.
“A phase?” he asks. “I’m not trying to pry, but I’m going to assume that if your agent bank-rolled your beach house vacation for two weeks, she must make a good amount of money off your books. I make my agent millions, and I don’t get so much as a Christmas card from the guy. You got a whole vacation.”
I snicker at the thought of the big, bad hockey goalie getting bent out of shape for not receiving a Christmas card.
Could it be that Seven Wrenley has a soft side?
“You'd think that the fact that I can afford a skyrise apartment in downtown Seattle, only a couple blocks from the Hockey stadium, that he sees I'm not exactly slumming it," I say
Seven stops chewing for a second.
“You don’t live in The Commons, do you?” he asks.
I’ve heard that most of the Hawkeyes players live in The Commons but I wasn’t sure if he did.
“No, I live in the apartment next door. Seventh floor.”
He takes another bite and mulls over the information I just dropped.
“Does your window face the commons?” he asks.
"Yes, actually, it does."
"Then I bet you can see directly into my apartment from yours."
"Are you serious? Are you on the seventh floor, too?"
He nods.
A little zip of excitement at the idea of getting home and testing it out comes out of nowhere.
What will it matter?
He’ll just be looking in on me writing in the window, and if he’s up late enough, he’ll see Daniel coming home.
Daniel.
Right, of course.
In three weeks, Daniel will be back and living together in our shared apartment.
“Sev,” I hear Rita’s voice break through my moment of reality. “Miguel says that the fridge is acting up. Any chance you can take a look at it before you go back outside?”
Seven can fix fridges, too?
“Sure, I’ll look at it now,” he says, putting his fork down on his empty plate.
He looks back at me.
