Page 34 of The Big Puck

“I wonder if it would be all right to bring Krissy by for a visit some time?”

“I would be forever indebted to you. Is tomorrow too soon? I swear I’m going to go crazy if I spend another day watching game shows.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes, I do. Let me give you the number.”

The woman is wonderful and reminds me of my aunts back home. I definitely plan to send her pictures and maybe do some facetime in between visits. She’s exactly the kind of woman Krissy needs to care for her, aside from me.

I wonder why Spence didn’t give her my number to call. Keeping close touch with the woman is vital for bonding and good for her recovery. Being cheered every day and reassured about Krissy’s welfare can only be a good thing.

As we’re ending our call after I belatedly ask her if she minds me calling her Aunt Hildie, I’m not surprised when she says she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Good-bye, Aunt Hildie. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I immediately start thinking about what kind of gift to bring her and hit on buying her a Kindle—filled with books.

I have a lot of extra money with this salary that I don’t need. Money was never a problem for me. I never needed it because Dad has plenty, and Mom, dear wonderful Mom, left me a trust fund when she left this world. This is something I sense would not sit well with Spence if he knew, so I’m not going to tell him.

All the same, I intend to buy Aunt Hildie a Kindle and fib about it if I have to. I’ll tell her I had an extra one I didn’t need, that it was a gift from my no-good ex-fiancé. Poor Moe. I shouldn’t keep thinking of him as no good because he’s got some good in him after all, doesn’t he?

Not long after my call with Aunt Hildie, the delivery truck arrives with the furniture I ordered—a couch, chair, an area rug, a coffee table, and a floor lamp. I have the men arrange the furniture before they leave while Krissy and I watch. The finishing touch on the room to make it an official living room is a framed photo of Krissy that I place on the mantle alongside a framed photo of Spence I found on the internet when he won the Frozen Four as acting head coach at St. Paul U. I hope he likes it. Hell, I hope he notices it.

Now, there’s plenty of seating in the living room, but after I eat dinner alone and pace around the living room for a while, checking my watch every few minutes, I finally put Krissy to bed at nine p.m. I’ve been so looking forward to Spence’s reaction to the newly decorated space that I can’t help being disappointed. He’s later than usual tonight, so I go to bed with a good book and the baby monitor.

The next morning, four days in, I make sure I’m up in time to get a lunch together for Spence. He comes down the stairs, and my heart pounds with anticipation. I don’t know why I’m putting so much significance on his reaction to the furniture, but I am. He stops short in the kitchen doorway with a full scowl in place.

“You shouldn’t have bought all that furniture, Lainey.”

“It was no trouble, I—”

“This isn’t your house.” He walks into the room and heads for the coffee, practically growling.

“I know it’s not, but I wanted to feel at home for the next few months since I’m here in the house ninety percent of the time without you. I’ll take the furniture with me when I leave. If you really don’t like it, I’ll put it in storage until then.”

I stand facing him with my hands on my hips, self-righteous anger over-riding the hurt that threatens to well up—for the moment.

“Still…it’s my house, and you’ve invaded it and taken over like a force of nature.” He pushes both hands through his hair in an act of sheer frustration. I recognize the emotion when I see it. I’ve had my share of it lately.

I could make any number of sassy comments right now about how it was his idea and how it’s only temporary, and once again, how he’s hardly ever here anyway, but I let his words swirl around the room and cover it in a pall of idiocy, until the realization that he’s being a dick finally hits him.

He fills his coffee cup and then stares back at me with that face, so ridiculously sexy, even with the super scowl firmly embedded. I don’t break eye contact, and even though I’m not smiling, I refuse to scowl. I wait for him to come to his senses. He’s a sensible guy, right?

“Storage?”

“Stop being a dick.” The words explode from my mouth, and the satisfying look of shock on his face almost makes me smile, but I’m still indignant, if not flat-out angry. “You hired me to live in your fucking house. Get over it.”

“You…,” he heaves a breath, then finishes his thought in a whisper, “you’re a hard person to get over.”

All the frustration and indignance drain from me like they are sucked out by a hose, and I’m left with a palpitating heart and jumpy nerves because I don’t even want to think about what he could mean by his words. Too afraid to contemplate the possibilities, too afraid to be wrong.

“I’m…” Oh hell. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” He stares, his jaw clenched and the muscle gilding the jaw twitching with tension.

I feel like I should do a count down because he looks like a ticking time bomb. But I wait him out, my hands clamped on my hips and my eyes glaring, trying to see what’s inside, deep down, that makes him so afraid.

“Hell. You’re going to make me say it?” he says. He looks down like he’s gathering courage from the floor. I want to say, Spit it out, but I don’t. I’m not going to say a word until he admits everything he has to admit to.

When he looks up at me, there’s no scowl, no frown, no smile. His expression looks hungry, like he’s been starving all his life, and I’m his last shot at a meal. He remains still though I get the sense that it’s at great cost for him to do so, like he’s holding back.