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14

LIAM

Best case scenario, my new personal assistant can lighten my load remotely. There’s no reason she needs to come to my loft again, leaving behind her cinnamon, spice, and everything nice scent. Her sweet and unrelenting smile isn’t welcome in my home. The last thing I want or need is her help, but the last few days haven’t gotten easier.

So maybe she can pick up a little of my slack.

At the Ice Palace, Vohn gets us started on agility and tosses me the puck as it were. While I’d like to go hard, if we’re going to get to the Finals, we need to start building our mental muscles.

I run us through a few control and accuracy drills and then pair everyone off.

“You’re going to pinpoint your opponent’s weak spot. Then you’re going to exploit it.”

Grimaldi rubs his hands together. “With pleasure.”

“Wrong idea. The point of this exercise is for all of us to know where we fall short because I guarantee the opposition is evaluating this too.”

Despite my excellence on the ice, unfortunately, Jessica has been able to point out my shortcomings without saying a word. She’s great with the kid and while I’ve overachieved at everything I’ve ever done, I’m not going to qualify for Father of the Year anytime soon.

After a team talk and shower, I check my messages, hoping Mrs. Kirby still has all her teeth. For the first twenty-four hours after Jessica left, the kid seemed to have adjusted. Then things went downhill fast.

He started acting out, was clingy, and refused to eat anything but cookies. After dinner, he cried until I positioned myself on the edge of the bed. I’ll admit it’s better than sleeping on the floor, but he’s like a pygmy donkey and kicked me in the kidneys twice.

Instead of an ALL-CAPS essay from Mrs. Kirby commenting on who she calls “My maladjusted son,” the message is from Jessica.

I instantly regret giving her my number and suggesting that we communicate through text only. She severely abuses the use of emojis. A thumbs up is fine to use as necessary, but each message is littered with sparkles and hearts and smiles.

Jessica: I appreciate your making clear my role as your new personal assistant with your rules. Here are some of mine:

Me: That’s not how this works.

Jessica: Here are my rules:

1. Please reply promptly to questions I have, particularly for time-sensitive tasks.

Me: Fair enough.

Jessica: 2. Because I will be in your home from time to time, do not touch my private chocolate stash if you find it.

Me: I will and it’s going in the trash.

Jessica: 3. If travel outside of Cobbiton or Omaha is required, I need at least a day’s notice so I have time to wash my hair.

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I want to run my fingers through her hair. Find out if it’s as silky as it looks. No, that’s not right. What am I thinking? This woman riles me up and brings out the worst in me. I know I’m being rude, confirming her assumptions that I’m a jerk, but I cannot stop myself.

Jessica: 4. If you know I’m coming over, please save me a cup of coffee.

Me: I’ll make sure it’s from the bottom of the pot and full of grounds.

Jessica: 5. You may not touch my butt.

I wouldn’t even consider it. Well, until now. Her backside comes to mind with a nice curve dropping from her waist.

Shaking my head to rid myself of the stupid, yet sudden juicy desire, I consider my reply. I could tell her to keep that thing away from me if she knows what’s good for her ... or steer this conversation back in the direction of general normalcy, at least when it comes to Jessica. The woman has quirks for days … and has been driving me nuts just as long.

Me: Have your previous employers done that last one? If so, sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Jessica: Oh my goodness. No! I meant butt.

Jessica: Autocorrect! Bundt. You cannot touch my Bundts. They’re a kind of cake. I make all sorts but specialize in personal-sized Bundt cakes with classic and unique flavors. It’s kind of my thing. The snickerdoodle with cream cheese frosting is everyone’s favorite. Mine too.

Me: In that case, I won’t touch your Bundts.

Jessica: Small claims court is no joke.

Me: Are those all of your rules?

Jessica: No, there are ninety-five more. I’m just getting warmed up.

Me: This is nonsense. Meet me at the Fish Bowl in an hour.

Jessica: Okay, boss.

Me: Mr. Ellis is fine.

Jessica: Is that so? I think Mr. Ellis is grumpy.

Me: I meant that you can refer to me as Mr. Ellis.

She doesn’t respond, leaving me with a strange, vacant feeling that borders on a craving—like when your nutritionist points out that you haven’t had chocolate in over twelve months. If Jessica is smart, she’ll keep her chocolate out of my house.

When I park outside O’Neely’s Fish Bowl, a nearby car honks and I nearly jump out of my skin. I’ve been to this hotspot for fans to watch games and gloat about how they’re the authority on all things hockey dozens of times. I can handle a little attention, but not a lot after today.

I don’t often make appearances here, but figure it’s best to meet Jessica in a public place rather than at home because if the kid sees her, he’s bound to not want to let her go.

As I exit the truck, what I’m feeling is a peculiar kind of anticipation, like I know a candy bar is waiting for me and I can’t wait to tear into it.

I grab a booth table and keep my eyes glued to a game from earlier in the season airing on one of the many televisions. It was against the Titans—my brother’s team. Coach put me in during the second period because Ted’s knee was acting up. I inwardly chuckle, recalling the game because Hendrix and I were so competitive that our skates practically sent up sparks, melting the ice.

Hayden scores a goal, reminding me this was when Valjean faked a shoulder injury. I push the thought from my mind and glance to my right, spotting a brown-eyed beauty all bundled up. Her lips are glossy and smiling. She waves like we’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in years.

Of course it’s Jessica.

If she had a greater sense of self-preservation, she’d have come in here wearing pads and carrying a stick.

Another woman trails behind her, twice her age if not more, eyes alight with what can only be described as hockey fandom lust. When the older woman’s gaze lands on me, it slips for one threatening moment. A subtle shiver runs through me as I imagine her in the paint, on offense, charging me like a bulldog on skates.

Jessica waves her hands like the witch bride she is, and says, “Liam, I’d like you to meet Grandma Dolly.”

Giving a lackadaisical wave, I say, “Hi.”

Jessica continues, “She’s Deaf and an expert at reading lips.” So only I can see, she whispers, “Don’t do your usual mumbling and grunting. It’s rude.” Then louder and at an upbeat pitch, she adds, “I’ll sign to fill in any gaps.”

I tuck my chin back, not expecting this level of confidence and command or the list of rules she texted which were more like demands.

I nod politely because my grandmother would slap me upside the head if I didn’t defer to my elder. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Jessica mutters, “I guess Cara was right and you weren’t raised by wolves. Possums maybe.”

“Who’s rude now?” I snarl back, then more loudly, “Also, why was Arsenault talking about me?”

“She hired me and gave a briefing. Described you as a loner with zero personality and a limited vocabulary,” she says as if awarding me with accolades.

I scowl in her direction.

“At least that was the gist.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest, accidentally knocking into the table. “Is that so? Then why did you take the job?”

“I couldn’t decline because she and I are best friends and because Grandma Dolly is a super fan … and I was in desperate need of a job.”

The woman mouths a few words and signs rapidly.

Jessica translates. “She said she thinks you’re dumb and ugly.”

My jaw drops a fraction of an inch. What transpired in the last few days to cause Jessica to go from eager assistant with hope in her eyes to hostile enemy with me in her crosshairs?

The older woman flashes a scolding look and elbows her.

Jessica huffs an exhale. “I’m kidding. Grandma Dolly said that she thinks you’re more handsome in real life than on TV and the poke check penalty at the last game was unfair.”

“Thank you very much. It was a great game. I appreciate your support.”

Grandma Dolly signs and waggles her eyebrows.

Jessica blinks slowly at her grandmother who mischievously bats her eyelashes. “She says she appreciates your biceps and wouldn’t object to a peek at your—” She coughs and kind of clears her throat, sounding like someone gagging on a duck whistle.

“What was that?”

“You know, your—” Jessica spins her finger in the general direction of my abdominal area.

Grandma Dolly rapidly signs.

“Apparently, in certain circles, your abs are quite the popular commodity. They even have their own hashtag.”

“They do?” I nearly splutter my tonic water with lime all over the table.

“Don’t sound so smug.”

Actually, that was the sound of surprise. My sister says I need to work on my delivery because I’d be the last person she’d want to receive news of a diagnosis from or find out about a new addition to the family. She claims that I’m gruff no matter what and lack nuance.

Jessica beams a smile as if well aware she just got under my skin by referring to my, ahem, skin.

“That’s, uh, very kind of you, Mrs. Dolly,” I say because how else do you reply to a septuagenarian who makes a comment like that?

“It’s Grandma Dolly. Everyone in Cobbiton calls her that,” Jessica signs.

The server appears wearing an official O’Neely’s Fish Bowl t-shirt. She and Jessica exchange a side hug and happy, bouncy, excited cheers.

“Grandma Dolly, you know Leah. Leah, this is Liam Ellis.”

“Yeah. I know who he is.” Unlike Jessica and her irrigation system of happiness, this woman actually glowers at me.

Leah says something about Heidi and her baby Bunny—I’m pretty sure that’s a health code violation in an establishment like this. The three women disappear to a nearby booth as the bubbles in my beverage deflate. Then, returning to the table, they gush about Heidi’s cute baby and not a critter that snuck into the restaurant.

Leah gives us the formal spiel about how O’Neely’s specializes in corn and potato dishes, featuring five special sauces.

She asks, “What can I get for the guy who ruined my fantasy hockey league winning streak because he had to go laugh at the coach and take a leave of absence?”

Awaiting my response to that projectile, Grandma Dolly tilts her head at an appraising angle.

Jessica leans in like I’m about to tell her the secret family cake recipe.

“I’m good.” I’m not sure where my appetite is at—my mind is on hockey, but the space between my head and the aforementioned abs fills with static. I can’t get a read on it other than I feel whooshy. I’ll have to ask the team doc to check my vitals.

Jessica says, “You can’t just order water. We’ll take a double order of loaded potato skin pub pucks. This makes my second this week.” She bounces in her seat like that’s a major accomplishment.

Grandma Dolly gives the thumbs up.

“Making up for lost time.” Before Leah leaves, Jessica gets a smile and I get another dirty look.

Grandma Dolly and Leah exchange a knowing nod that makes me wonder if they’re up to something.

I have a strange feeling that Jessica didn’t only bring her grandmother here because she’s a super fan. Actually, I’m the one who called this meeting. Did she reverse-bait me? Have I been reeled in by the most unsuspecting and possibly unrelentingly cheerful person on the planet? If so, touché.

I’m ready to get down to business and get out of here. The less time I spend with this woman the more likely I am to retain my common sense. “We need to discuss the rules.”

“Be my guest,” Jessica says with a flourish of her hand.

“Yours seem to be outside the bounds of the assistant-boss relationship.”

“I work best with cream in my coffee.”

“You’re working remotely, you can get your own coffee.”

“I’m more of a people person. Things will work out better between us if we have more face-to-face time.”

Grandma Dolly signs.

Jessica translates. “She says you have a very nice face.”

I snort. “Is she trying to butter me up?”

“She would like a signed jersey, but I’ll have to leave the two of you to settle that since I’m not allowed to touch your jersey.”

“I said I didn’t want you wearing it.”

Surfacing from the malaise of constantly keeping one eye and ear on the kid, I concede that was a little aggressive.

Grandma Dolly signs again.

Jessica’s chest rises and falls with a long sigh. “She said she’ll make you cookies. Oh, but you don’t like cookies, do you?”

“I never said I didn’t like them. I just don’t eat them.”

Jessica rolls her eyes. “In the short time I’ve known you, I’ve observed that you have a certain kind of mental toughness, likely required for the rigors of your sport. However, I’m not sure how well it works with day-to-day life.”

“I didn’t ask for your psychoanalysis.”

“I’m mostly making this up as I go along, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t optimize my ability to assist you.”

“Do I really need your help?”

Grandma Dolly nods vigorously. Maybe I’m not a fan of her after all. Then again, my grandmother can be brutally honest, too. Usually, she’s right.

“Listen, all I want to do is play my best, lead the team to the Finals, win the Stanley. End of story.” But there’s a hidden chapter and I’m afraid of anyone finding out.

“Which is why I thought it would be beneficial for us to have this meeting.”

“But I suggested it.”

Jessica smiles primly. She commented that she’s making things up as she goes along, however, maybe she’s more clever than I thought. Why though? I can’t track her angle. Is it to annoy me? To tempt me?

Leah brings the potato skins and places them on Jessica and Grandma Dolly’s side of the table, only leaving two plates alongside extra napkins. “If there’s anything else I can bring you, please let me know. Enjoy.” She wrinkles her nose at me.

Predictably, Jessica smiles at the appetizers. Then she and Grandma Dolly join hands and bow their heads in a silent prayer. Jessica takes a bite and then raves about how delicious the potato skins are.

Grandma Dolly signs and she translates, “You’re missing out.”

They do look delicious with all that melty cheese. I decline a lot of things in my life, but focus and hard work got me to where I am. It’s payment for what I did.

Jessica scoops one of the potato pucks onto a napkin and slides it in front of me, narrating each movement like a hockey commentator. “Fuller is in possession of the puck, she breaks away, rushing toward the goal, and she scores!” At that last word, she lifts her arms and cheers.

At the same time, I reach for my water. In a right-handed-oriented world, she’s not used to being around left-handed people. Our hands bump and the tall cups of water teeter then totter as we both scramble to make sure they don’t tip.

Nostrils flaring, we manage to keep from having a calamity, but this woman is a hazard. She can’t be part of my life, especially not with how having any amount of contact makes me feel off-kilter and all whooshy inside.

“Whoopsie.”

She’s got that right.

“I was making a special potato skin delivery. You looked sad over there without one.”

Call me stubborn, but I’m not going to eat the potato skin. Not even if what she did with the commentary before we almost had a massive spill was kind of cute.

I don’t like the way I feel around her. It’s like I’m behind the wheel but losing my grip and skidding dangerously toward a ravine bordered by animosity and attraction.

I just can’t let myself go over the edge.

But what if it’s not entirely up to me?

My foot is on the accelerator, but I have to remain in control.