Page 5

Remy

Thursday night…

“ S ock puppets? You’re serious?”

“Of course not. First rule of fun club, Bossy—never take Fun Club too seriously.” Stone leans against the wall in my office after hours on Thursday, wearing a salmon T-shirt that’s already spattered with paint and a big grin.

I arch a brow. “I thought it was never to tell anyone about Fun Club.”

He shrugs. “Right, first rule after that. You ready?”

“Yeah. I was just tackling a few things in my inbox while I waited,” I say, shutting my laptop and indulging in a shoulder-popping stretch.

It’s nearly six o’clock, and I’ve spent the day in back-to-back meetings, dealing with sponsorship contracts, and talking the new intern off the ledge. Guillaume double-booked my father’s Friday lunch meeting, leading to a rare visit to the admin office from Dad, who made Guillaume weep into his latte and consider heading back to Quebec City, where he swears no Canadian is ever as caustic as my father when he’s on the war path.

Not even a French Canadian.

Not even his ex-boyfriend from Paris, who said terrible things about Guillaume’s accent after they broke up.

I felt bad for him, but also couldn’t help thinking how much more upset he would have been if he’d made the same mistake twelve months ago. Dad always comes in hard with a new team. Last year, his first with the Badgers, he was practically a super villain. He made the team hold plank until one of the rookies threw up, glared at anyone who dared to smile at him in the hallway, and refused to let our then intern, Blaire, speak to him directly.

She apparently used too many words and “wasted his time.”

But I decided sharing that perspective probably wouldn’t ease Guillaume’s mind and opted for distraction instead. I put his petty side to good use creating passive-aggressive signs to post around the admin break room, reminding people that the refrigerator isn’t a time capsule and that taking one bite out of a donut and leaving it in the box is a wasteful cry for help none of us has time to answer. Especially when we’ve been deprived of our shot at a chocolate coconut donut from Heavenly Hole.

It's been a day and a half, and it feels good to finally close my laptop. And, as much as a part of me hates to admit it, I’ve been looking forward to my date with Stone tonight.

Our date that isn’t a date, obviously.

It’s just easier to call it that than an appointment with my fun coach, who used to be my fuck buddy, who I sort of called things off with before having a meltdown in front of him and then allowing him to me give me a weirdly non-sexual bath, sleep in my bed, cook for me, and hang out watching adult cartoons on my couch most of Monday…

I’m honestly not sure what Stone and I are to each other right now, but I’m probably way too excited about spending a night doing kiddie crafts with him.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather go bowling or something?” I ask, pushing my chair in. “There’s a cute place over in Dundee where we shouldn’t run into anyone we know. Smells like moldy feet, but has cool vintage shoes and great snacks.”

“I’d be down for bowling another time, but tonight is for crafting. I already RSVPed for sock puppet making, and I can’t afford to anger the local handicraft community. They hold a grudge, and I’m too addicted to flower arranging to get blacklisted.” He checks his watch. “You cleared the next two hours? It’s going to take us a little while to get there. I booked at a craft collective out of town.”

“Yep. All clear.” I have, in fact, cleared the rest of the evening. In a rare show of self-compassion, I asked my volunteer back-up to cover for me at the elementary girls’ skill workshop tonight. Marjorie loves coaching kids and has been offering to help out for months.

She actually seemed excited that I’d called in a favor.

Maybe people want to help more than I’ve given them credit for. And maybe letting them is actually a sign of strength, not weakness.

The fact that I’m allowing questions like that to roll around in my head is proof that Stone is rubbing off on me. But there are worse things than letting a good guy teach you how to be better to yourself.

He really is a good one, even better than I previously suspected.

What he did for me Sunday night and Monday…

Well, I owe him way more than a good attitude about participating in weird crafts. That’s the very least I can do.

“So do we need to bring our own socks?” I ask, sliding my laptop into my oversized purse and grabbing my duffle from under my desk. I took the bus this morning so I could ride with Stone after work, but I couldn’t justify skipping leg day. “I have some in my gym bag, but I’m sure they’re stinky.”

“Girl, what do you take me for?” he asks, tsking as he shakes his head. “I already picked up socks at the dollar store. White and multi-colored. You ready to jet?”

“Ready,” I say, circling around my desk. “But you can’t make fun of me if my puppets are lame. You know I’m not artistic.”

“I know you don’t think you’re artistic,” he says, poking his head out into the hall. He glances right, left, then back to the right again before murmuring, “All clear. I’ll take the stairs? You can take the elevator and meet me on the west side of the lot. I parked right by the west exit for maximum stealth, but by the time I headed up, almost everyone had cleared out.”

“Yeah, sounds good. I wanted to swing by the bathroom on my way out, anyway.” I follow him into the hall, locking my office behind me. “See you down there.”

“See you.” He backs toward the stairs with a wink that sends a flutter through my stomach.

In the bathroom by the elevator, I reapply lipstick and pull a brush through my frizzy hair. I remembered to run some oil through it after my workout and shower, but it never looks as good when I let it air dry instead of using the diffuser. But it’s fine. Stone has seen me looking way worse.

And it’s not like this is a real date.

This is just friend fun time, and it’s good that I embraced business casual in black pants and a black sleeveless turtleneck. Stone is the crafty one. I’m more likely to end up with paint on my clothes, which hopefully won’t show on the black fabric.

Outside, I sweep my gaze back and forth across the mostly empty lot before heading for Stone’s idling SUV. There are still a few vehicles scattered across the vast expanse, but they’re empty.

Still…

“We should probably meet somewhere else next time.” I toss my bags into his backseat before climbing into the passenger’s side. “No sense in tempting fate. I mean, I knew Dad was going to be at the banquet tonight, but his schedule isn’t usually that ironclad.”

“Sure, no worries,” Stone says, shifting into drive with another big grin. “Ready for fun time? Whoo-hoo! Fun time, heck yeah!”

“Yes, I’m ready, you goober. Now drive,” I say, giggling.

I can’t help it. His enthusiasm is contagious.

“That’s the spirit!” He reaches over, giving my knee a quick squeeze that makes me laugh again before returning his hand to the wheel and pulling out of the lot. “So, tonight’s objective! To embrace the joy and fun of creation without stressing about being ‘good’ at it. Good and bad are relative, and they don’t matter in a situation like this. The fun is in the process. The journey, if you will.”

“I hear you,” I say with a sigh. “But you know I don’t like being bad at things.”

“I do know that about you,” he says, shooting a smug glance across the cab. “Why do you think I chose weird crafting for our first coaching session? There’s a method to my madness, woman. Even if you make the ugliest sock puppet ever known to man, it’s still going to be awesome. And pointless. And just plain fun. Mark my words, you’re going to have a judgment-free blast.”

I sit back in the comfy leather seat, crossing my legs. “Sounds good.”

And…it does.

Weirdly.

Looks like Stone might actually be pretty good at this fun coach stuff.

As we drive out of the city, the stress of the day slowly eases from my jaw and shoulders. The warm evening sun filters through the trees along the highway, and Stone’s latest mellow indie playlist is really good. We chat a little about camp and my day at work, but mostly we sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the music on the way to Brookdale.

It’s one of those small Oregon towns that’s equal parts cutesy and hipster, packed with historic charm and barber shops selling artisanal beard oil. The Painted Lady Craft Collective is at the end of Main Street, in a converted Victorian house with a wide front porch and strings of Edison bulbs crisscrossing the yard. There are already several cars parked out front, and women in colorful, flowing dresses move around behind the large window on the first floor, talking and laughing.

“We’re not late, are we?” I ask as Stone kills the engine.

“Fashionably on time,” he assures me. “We should be able to breeze in and get right down to crafting, no awkward small talk required.”

I grin again. “You really do know me, don’t you?”

“Pretty well,” he agrees. “Let me grab our socks from the back, and we can head in. You don’t need your purse if you’d rather leave it here. I’ve already paid for the class and snacks.”

I perk up as I follow him out of the cab. “Snacks? There are snacks?”

“Of course, there are snacks.” He grabs a paper bag from the back before locking up and starting down the paving stones toward the front door. “And craft beer.”

Smiling wide enough to make my jaw hurt a little, I follow him, a spring in my step. Learning not to care about sucking at art is going to be a lot easier with beer and snacks.

Inside the Painted Lady, my eyes widen at the explosion of color and creativity. The former living room has been transformed into a crafter’s paradise, with mismatched vintage tables scattered throughout the space. Mason jars stuffed with googly eyes, buttons, and yarn in every shade imaginable crowd the surfaces, while clotheslines strung across the floral wallpaper showcase an army of sock puppets—some sporting wild yarn hairdos, others flashing felt fangs, all looking like they might come alive after hours.

“There you are!” A woman with a purple pixie cut and paint-spattered overalls bounds toward us. “Our last sock puppet power couple! Just in time. I’m Piper, your crafting guide for the evening.” She gestures toward a table by the bay window. “You’re right over there. Christina will bring you something delicious in a jiffy.”

Stone’s hand finds the small of my back, a light, warm pressure guiding me forward. The touch is casual, something he’s done a hundred times before, but tonight it sends another flutter through my stomach that I choose to blame on snack anticipation rather than anything more complicated.

I am pretty hungry. I worked straight through lunch and barely had time to throw a handful of nuts into my mouth between the gym and my next meeting.

“This place is fun,” I whisper as we settle in at our designated table. “I feel like I’m in a fairy tale. Or back in kindergarten, but in a good way.”

“That’s the point,” Stone says, looking pleased with himself. “All the fun of being a kid, with no one forcing you to take a nap when you’d rather go outside to play.”

Before I can confess that I was also a terrible napper back in the day—apparently, I’ve sucked at resting since I was a toddler—a server appears with a wooden board piled high with cheeses, crackers, pickles, and dried fruit, along with two amber-filled pint glasses.

“Northwest IPAs,” the woman, Christina, I think Piper said her name was, announces. “Brewed right here in Brookdale. Enjoy your puppet journey and happy manifesting!”

Stone lifts his glass, eyes dancing with mischief. “To crafting and creativity.”

“And manifesting fun,” I add, clinking my glass against his. The beer is hoppy with citrus notes, another solid local brew I’m excited to add to my list.

Piper claps her hands from the front of the room. “All right, my loves, let’s get started. Tonight, in an effort to invite more creativity into our lives, I want you all to embrace your inner weirdos. The theme is ‘Let Your Freak Flag Fly.’ I want to see puppets with personality, the more outrageous, the better! We want to tap into deep levels of artistic play, where anything goes.”

She demonstrates a few techniques for creating mouths and attaching features, but it’s clear the emphasis is on setting our muse free, not following any rules.

“White or colored sock?” Stone asks, holding up the two packages.

“Definitely color. And definitely green,” I say, digging the sock out after he pops the top on the rainbow package. “I’m going to make a dragon.”

“A dragon?” His eyebrows slide up as he nods. “Nice. Straight to the fantasy, no boring real-life animals for you. I like it.”

I shrug with faux swagger. “I’m wild and free. What can I say?”

He laughs as he takes the other green sock for himself. “Sweet. I hope you won’t judge me for making a plain old ordinary frog. Gotta pay my creative respects to my homeboy, Kermit.”

“No judgment here.” I select two mismatched buttons—one blue, one green. Solid dragon eyes. “Fun night is a no judgment zone, remember? I also loved Kermit, but Gonzo was my favorite.”

“Love Gonzo!” Stone hesitates, nibbling on his bottom lip. “Now, I feel like maybe I should do a monster, instead? Is that what Gonzo was?”

I laugh. “I have no idea. But maybe you’ll have time to make both.”

Stone grins. “Excellent idea.” He reaches for a pair of big googly eyes. “So why a dragon? Because your family’s from Scotland? Isn’t the dragon their national animal?”

“No, it’s the unicorn,” I say, gathering red and orange felt. “I think Wales is the dragon, but don’t quote me. I haven’t been to the UK since I was tiny.” I frown, a memory emerging from the primordial soup. “But actually, I think my parents bought Scorcher for me when we were in Edinburgh visiting Dad’s grandma before she passed.”

“Scorcher?”

“My stuffed dragon,” I say. “He was bright green with yellow teeth and flaming red eyes, and I blamed him every time I got into trouble for not doing my chores.”

“Aw, cute. Did your dad buy it?”

I snort. “Of course, not. You know he’s anti-shirking. Even for four-year-olds.”

Stone pauses, a googly eye hovering above his sock. “You had chores when you were four? Seriously?”

Something in his tone makes me glance up. I bristle a little at the pity in his gaze.

“It wasn’t like child labor,” I say, with a defensive shrug. “My dad wasn’t a monster for wanting me to learn how to help out. It was just little things like cleaning up my toys and helping load the dishes after dinner. Things that are good for a kid to learn.”

He studies me for a moment longer than feels necessary…or comfortable.

“I mean, kids in China learn how to make their own meals starting in kindergarten,” I add. “They have little fire pits outside in their playgrounds and everything. Kids can do a lot more than we give them credit for, and self-sufficiency builds character.”

“You’re right,” he says, but his tone says he isn’t sure that I am. “I didn’t have chores until sixth grade, and then only little things. Benefit of being the baby of the family. My sisters are still pissed at me for not being forced to do my own laundry when I turned twelve.”

“Slacker,” I tease, making him laugh.

“Totally,” he agrees, nodding toward the yarn on the far side of the table. “Can you hook me up with the green and yellow? I want to give my frog hair.”

“As you should.” I pass the yarn before grabbing some yellow felt for myself. I cut and curl the fabric into horn shapes that I stick together with glue before attaching them to my dragon’s forehead with needle and thread.

“Look!” I hold up my puppet when I’m done. “Horns! And I only stabbed myself twice, and I’m barely bleeding at all.”

“Awesome,” Stone says. “He’s looking good.”

“Thank you,” I preen. “Now I’m going to give him a rainbow mane. If a frog can have hair, a dragon can have a mane like a pony, right?”

“Hell, yeah,” he agrees.

The conversation continues to flow easily as our puppets take shape. Stone’s frog grows increasingly adorable, with bulging felt-backed googly eyes, blond hair with green highlights, and a wide pink mouth that looks ready to catch flies. My dragon is fun, too, though the rainbow mane turns out to be a little more work than I bargained for. I’m still stitching chunks into place as Stone finishes with Steve.

“Steve?” I ask, glancing up from my puppet with an arched brow. “Why Steve?”

“Why not Steve?” Stone counters, making his frog hop across the table to inspect my creation. He pitches his voice high and squeaky as he adds, “My, Mr. Dragon, what big horns you have.”

“That’s what all the girls say, Steve,” I brag in a deep, dragon voice.

Piper chooses that moment to swing by our table, inspecting our creations with almost theatrical appreciation. “Wow. These are magnificent! The hair on that frog and the dragon’s mane are inspired.” She glances between us, her expression softening. “What a beautiful couple you are. Such lovely, accepting energy in the air between you.”

My lips part to explain that we’re just friends, but Stone beats me to the punch.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “We’re having a great time. Thanks for putting together such a fun night.”

“Yes, thank you so much,” I echo, my cheeks heating for reasons I can’t completely explain.

Once Piper moves on to the next table, Stone’s gaze shifts my way, sending a sizzle of awareness across my skin. “Figured it was easier just to say thanks. And I mean…we do have lovely energy.”

“It’s not bad,” I murmur, my mind turning to just how “energetic” we usually are together. I would be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t jonesing for Stone to bend me over the closest piece of furniture and deliver some of our usual stress relief, but…this is nice too.

Maybe too nice?

I push the thought aside, concentrating on finishing up my dragon’s mane. We’re having fun. There’s no reason to overthink it. In fact, not overthinking is the whole point of this “intervention.”

By the time we finish our second puppets—a monster for Stone and a unicorn for me—the evening is winding down. Three of the six tables have already left when Piper announces clean-up time, but I feel a pang of disappointment, anyway.

“I guess I’ll have to finish the unicorn’s mane at home,” I say, tucking my last wad of black yarn into my pocket. I decided to make my unicorn dark and goth-y to contrast with my dragon’s rainbow vibes.

Stone grins. “Look at you! From anti-craft to taking yarn home with you. I call that a raving success.”

“Yeah, it was fun,” I say, waving goodbye to Piper as we collect our puppets and head for the exit.

“Just fun?” Stone holds the door open for me before following me out into the cool night air. “Not amazing? Life-changing? An awakening of your creative spirit?”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “I don’t know about all that, but you did good. It was a great first fun date.”

His smile is pleased and a little smug. “I knew it. I knew there was a crafter under that corporate jock exterior.”

I laugh. “Don’t get carried away. I’m not going to decoupage with you. Not ever.”

“Not even if I had some really fun material to work with?” he asks as he unlocks the SUV. “I have Mad magazines from the 1930s and an old copy of Macbeth with loads of creepy illustrations…”

I pat his arm. “Thanks, but I’m going to leave those for you. I’m not big on cutting and pasting. But this was great. I’m really glad we came.”

He opens the passenger door for me. “Me, too.”

The drive back to my place is even easier and more relaxed than our drive down to The Painted Lady. We chat about everything and nothing, and when we pull up outside my building, an unexpected reluctance sweeps over me. I usually like living alone—dealing with people all day has me ready for peace and quiet by the time I head home—but for the first time in a long while, I’m not looking forward to “me time” before bed.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say as I reach into the back for my bags. “It was really nice.”

“My pleasure.” Stone’s voice is soft, rumbly, reminding me of the way his words vibrate across my skin when we’re as close as two people can get. “I’ll shoot you a text about where to meet on Saturday once I have more details.”

“Sounds good.” I hesitate, the invitation to come up and have another beer—and have me up against the wall—hovering on my lips.

But before I can speak, Stone leans over and gives me a quick hug. “I’d better get home to Barb,” he says, his breath warm on my neck. “I took her out right before I came to get you, but she’ll still need a trip to her puppy pad on the balcony before bed.”

“Of course, no worries. Go take care of the fur baby,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed.

He pulls back, gazing at me for a beat before he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Night, Rem.” Then he kisses me, but not one of our usual “starved for each other” kisses. This kiss is soft, almost friendly, and lands on the corner of my mouth instead of my lips.

But it’s still enough to make me ache…

“Night,” I whisper, my heart beating faster.

I climb out of the SUV, waving as he heads for home before ducking into the building. Once inside my apartment, I prop my sock puppets up on my bookshelf, with the pile of black yarn beside them, charmed by how they disrupt the dry symmetry of my hockey trophies and non-fiction book collection. Even as a kid, most of the books at the Lauder house were hockey-related histories or memoirs, but I also had a small collection of dragon-themed books.

In a rare moment of sentimentality, I took them with me when I moved out of Dad’s house for good after college. They’re little kid books, but they remind me of Mom, and how she’d read to me every night before bed.

On impulse, I grab “Sleepy Baby Dragon” from the bottom shelf beneath my collection of coffee table books and place it beside Scorcher Jr, smiling at how cute the illustrated cover looks beside my homemade puppet.

I head into the shower, staying loyal to my usual routine, but the hot water doesn’t calm me the way it usually does, and as I slip between my sheets, I find myself wishing Stone were here to snuggle again. Just…snuggle, not even deliver multiple O’s.

This is dangerous territory. Getting attached to a man I have no intention of getting serious about is about as smart as skating without a helmet. Even if I decided I was up for breaking my “no relationships” rule, and Stone was game to be boyfriend/girlfriend, between my career ambitions in Seattle and Stone aiming for a sportscaster job in L.A. after he retires, we’re moving in completely different directions. And the fact still remains that my dad would make Stone’s final NHL season miserable if he found out about us.

Nope, giving in to my softer side would be a mistake. I just need to enjoy this for what it is and keep holding Stone at an appropriate distance. A friendly, fuck buddy distance. I can do that.

At least, I think I can…

But as I drift off to sleep, I find myself looking forward to whatever we’re going to do on Saturday with an eagerness I haven’t felt in a long time.

A long, long time.