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“Is it work?” I press gently, hoping he’ll give me something—anything—to ease this growing knot in my stomach.

He nods, but it’s automatic, his eyes still not meeting mine.

I don’t push. Not yet.

But the knot that is in my stomach tightens. Whatever is going on, it’s coming for us.

A few minutes pass in comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. I let myself relax into Beck’s warmth, my head resting against his shoulder.

“Your dog,” Beck murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “is spoiled rotten.”

I glance down at Spotty, who’s rolled onto his back, paws in the air, snoring like a freight train. Biscuit and Mitts watch him with barely disguised judgment.

“Look who’s talking,” I shoot back, a grin tugging at my lips. “Your cats act like they own the place.”

“Theydoown the place,” Beck says, deadpan. “I’m just a humble servant.”

“Right. A billionaire hockey player who’s a servant to his cats.” I snort.

“Hey.” Beck’s grin is pure mischief now. “Mitts rules this house with an iron paw.”

As if on cue, Mitts flicks her tail and gives us both a look that saysfinally, some respect.

I laugh softly, the tension in my chest easing just a little. “We’re a mess, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Beck murmurs, his voice softer now as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “But I kinda like this mess.”

My heart flips, and for a moment…

I let myself believe this could be forever.

***

“Okay, spill,” Quinn demands the next afternoon as we sit at my kitchen table. She’s elbow-deep in flour, rolling out dough for what I suspect will be the world’s best batch of cinnamon rolls.

“There’s nothing to spill,” I lie, but the way she arches an eyebrow makes it clear I’m not fooling her.

“Abby.”

I sigh, my hands tightening around the mug of tea in front of me.

“It’s Beck,” I admit softly. “He’s… distant.”

Quinn’s hands still, and she looks up, her expression turning serious. “Distant how?”

“He’s distracted,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Something’s weighing on him. And I don’t know if it’s… us.”

“Have you asked him?”

I shake my head, my throat tight. “Not yet.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow. “Abby.”

“I know,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.

“No.” She points the rolling pin at me like a weapon. “Don’tdothis. Don’t shut him out because you’re scared.”

“Quinn—”