Page 29

I grab my bags and head for the stairs.

I can’t stop my eyes from wandering to the door on the right. The one that is forbidden. His. I can’t, or maybe I can, but right now I need to get settled. I push my door open and walk through the guest room, which is really nice. Another magazine-worthy room. Beige bedding. Dark wood furniture. A soft gray rug under my feet and another window with a breathtaking view of the city.

The attached bathroom has a large slate-tiled shower, white towels folded beneath the sink, and exactly what Bishop promised. Everything a person could want. Soap. Shampoo. Conditioner. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Even a couple of unopened toothbrushes. Scratch that… everything a girl could want. A small basket tucked beside the towels with makeup wipes, tampons, hair ties, and a few other things that definitely aren’t meant for Hayes Bishop or his teammates.

Huh. I pick up a toothbrush. Maybe he’s a really considerate host—one who apparently anticipates women needing tampons. My stomach gives an annoying little twist. Of course, women stay here. Why wouldn’t they?

He’s Hayes Bishop after all.

Professional hockey player. Charming captain with blond hair, blue eyes, and those damn dimples. I’ve heard enough over the years to know he doesn’t exactly spend his nights alone knitting.

Not that I care about his guests.

Darcy appears in the bathroom doorway as if he can read my mind.

“What? I don’t. None of this matters.” I catch my reflection in the mirror and try to ignore the flush in my cheeks, hating the way it makes my freckles stand out more.

His tail flicks.

“I mean it.”

He walks away.

I hate this cat. And our temporary housing situation.

I unpack exactly enough to function tomorrow morning and leave everything else inside my bag. I have a busy day of apartment hunting planned, and I need to get some sleep now that I’m not fearing for my life.

I plug in my phone, set my battered pink composition notebook on the nightstand, and tell myself I should probably leave Bishop’s room alone. Then I hear something hit the floor across the hall.

I close my eyes. “Darcy.”

Another thump.

Of course.

I cross the hallway and push open Bishop’s door.

“Seriously?”

Darcy is sitting in the middle of his bed.

“Bad kitty!” I step farther into the room and come to an abrupt stop. Wow.

His bedroom is larger than mine, with taller windows wrapping around the corner and late-afternoon light spilling across the dark wood floor.

But it’s not the view that keeps me standing there. It’s the room itself. The rest of Bishop’s apartment is polished. But this… this is personal. This feels like him.

The gray bedding is slightly rumpled. A worn leather chair sits near the windows with a Phoenixes sweatshirt tossed over the back. A book lies face down on the nightstand, and a pair of sneakers sits kicked halfway beneath the dresser.

And pictures, but only a few. My fingers brush gently over the brass frame around his mother’s photo, my heart aching for a young Hayes. One of a much younger Bishop standing beside his grandfather in front of an old white Chevy Silverado. They’re both covered in grease, Bishop’s blond hair falling into his eyes, their smiles almost identical.

I know how much that old truck means to him, how much his grandfather did, and how it’s all he has left of him.

The third picture stops me cold.

My family. Mom. Dad. Declan. Me and Bishop.

We’re all crammed together at some summer cookout years ago. Declan has Bishop in a headlock. Mom is laughing. Dad has one hand on Bishop’s shoulder.