Page 10

Hallie

I hold my hand up to knock on Rio’s front door, but instead, decide to let it drop to my side.

Theoretically, I knew it might be strange working on his house, but I didn’t give myself the opportunity to really let it sink in just how uncomfortable this could be. I didn’t give this first walk-through a second thought until the anxiety kept me up for most of the night, tossing and turning in my bed.

We’ve seen each other a couple of times in passing this week. He was mowing his lawn one morning when I left for work and was then grabbing his mail around the time I made it home from my shift at the bar. I didn’t want to question why he might be getting his mail at two in the morning, so I let myself chalk it up to poor sleep.

There haven’t been any more words exchanged. Only small acknowledgments that the other exists—a casual wave or tip of the chin. Because we’re friends .

I could laugh at the thought.

We’re not friends. We’re just trying not to kill each other. And personally, I’m trying not to rip off his clothes.

The clock on my phone switches to three p.m., so I, once again, raise my hand to knock, but before I can, the front door swings open.

Rio is standing there, beanie pulled down over his ears, joggers cinching at his ankles, right above his bare feet. But that’s not what has my mouth hanging open. It’s the fully unbuttoned flannel cuffed around his elbows that he’s wearing without another shirt underneath.

Like a hot lumberjack.

There’s enough dark hair on his chest to remind me that we really were young the last time we saw each other, and when my eyes trail down to his abdomen, I find myself questioning what happened to all the junk food we consumed when we were kids. Trailing further south, that dark hair starts again, just under his belly button, creating a visual path to a part of him I’ve thought about far too often over the years.

“Hallie.”

My attention pulls up to meet his. “What?”

“I asked if you were going to put your hand down.”

Yeah. I’m standing here like an idiot with my hand still held up, ready to knock on the door and gawking at the guy like I’ve never seen a shirtless man before. Like I’ve never seen a shirtless him before.

He’s your client.

I quickly wrap my airborne hand around the books I have held tightly to my chest.

“That was creepy,” I say, turning it back on him. “I was about to knock on the door.”

He gestures to the doorbell camera, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “Not as creepy as it was for me to watch you standing and staring at my door for multiple minutes. Figured I’d come check to see if you were coming to our meeting.”

“Well...” I stumble. “Are you sure you’re ready for this meeting? Do you want to, I don’t know, put a shirt on?”

His playful smirk lifts way too fast. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, Hart.”

“Please stop talking.”

“You were the one looking.”

I straighten my spine. “Can we get to work now, friend ?”

That knowing smile grows. “Sure. Come on in, friend .”

As he pushes off the door, letting me past him, his flannel shirt opens, allowing me to catch a peek of black ink sprawling over part of the left side of his chest and ribs.

Now, there’s something I haven’t seen before.

“Dining table is straight ahead,” he says as he holds the door open for me. “You can set your things down there.”

My eyes are glued on his new ink, attempting to catch more of it as I pass him, but also attempting to be subtle. I’m clearly not because once I set my things on the table and turn back to the entryway, Rio is busy buttoning his shirt.

He’s finishing the last button by the time he meets me at the table. “Can I get you something to drink before we start? I have water, tea, coffee—”

“You have coffee here?”

“Yeah.” He motions to a small part of his kitchen counter that’s occupied by multiple machines. “I have an espresso machine and regular drip coffee, so whatever you want.”

“But you don’t drink coffee.”

This soft smile tilts on his lips, like he likes that I remembered that.

“It’s not for me. It’s for when I have guests over.”

“Oh.”

“Oh no,” he quickly corrects. “Not those kinds of guests.”

“You don’t need to explain.” I busy myself with organizing the design books I brought over, opening them and spreading them across his table. “It’s not my business anyway.”

But the image puts a bad taste in my mouth. Not that I’m na?ve to think he hasn’t been with anyone else in all these years, but as his first, I don’t want to know anything about the women who followed.

“My teammates, Hallie. They spend a lot of time here, so it’s for them. And my best friend is kind of addicted to iced coffee. A few years ago, she was staying here for a couple of days, and her now husband gave me so much shit for not making her coffee correctly that I had to step up my game. That’s all I meant by guests .” He points to one of the books on the table, the one filled with a crisp palette of whites and grays. “And put that one away. I fucking hate that one.”

I chuckle because just as he used to, Rio knows how to soothe any discomfort.

I close that book and slip it onto a chair so it’s out of view. “Can you make a latte?”

“You still like yours with vanilla?”

“Please.”

Rio makes his way over to the small coffee bar he’s created on the far corner of his kitchen counter, measuring out the espresso beans and pulling a shot. From the fridge, he grabs a carton of almond milk, but I can see that he has oat and regular dairy milk in there too.

To an outsider, this might seem odd, him having a coffee bar when he doesn’t drink caffeine or having dairy milk in his fridge when he’s lactose intolerant. But the thing is, Rio has always been good to his friends, has always had this innate way of loving and taking care of those important to him. One of his best characteristics is making those around him comfortable and welcomed, so a fully stocked coffee station for friends who are visiting makes perfect sense to me.

He froths the almond milk before adding it to the mug, then attempts his best at a design with the foam. But even from my view, I can tell the art looks like shit.

His eyes are locked on the mug, adding the last of the heated milk and doing some overexaggerated thing with his wrist as if that’s going to make the design look any better.

“I know you’re over there trying not to laugh at me.”

That does make me laugh. “I’m not.”

“Your lying hasn’t really improved since I last saw you, Hal.”

Rio realizes what he said the same time I do, and the awkward tension settles in around us like it has so easily since seeing each other again.

He clears his throat, crossing through the kitchen and holding the mug out to me. “Almond milk, if I remember correctly.”

I take it from him, grateful for the swift attempt of moving forward.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

I don’t tell him that I don’t like almond milk. I only ordered it when we were younger because I knew he’d ask for a sip of my latte since he couldn’t handle the amount of caffeine if he ordered his own, and I didn’t want the dairy to bother him.

“And the latte art?” he asks. “That’s perfect too, huh?”

There’s literally no art. It’s just a couple of white blobs of foam randomly scattered across the top.

“What exactly is it?”

He scoffs. “It’s a swan, Hal. Obviously.”

“Oh, yes. I see it now. It’s very... intricate. Very... abstract.”

He bursts a laugh, and I take a sip to hide my smile from hearing the sound. I’m not sure if it’s his laughter or the latte, but every inch of me goes warm.

“Thanks for protecting my ego.”

I playfully roll my eyes. This man has never had an ego needing protection. He’s a goofball who has no problem making a fool out of himself to allow those around him to let down their guards.

I take another sip of my latte because holy shit, this is good, and as someone who loves a luxury espresso drink but can’t afford to splurge, this is everything right now.

“Feel free to practice that latte art on me anytime you want. This is delicious. Thank you.”

He leans a hip on the kitchen counter across from me, watching me drink. “You’re welcome.”

Taking another sip, this time a bit of foam sticks to my upper lip. I don’t think twice about cleaning it off with a slow slide of my tongue until I look up to find him watching the whole thing.

His green eyes are hooded and focused on my mouth.

“It’s good.”

He hums, his attention lasered in. “Good.”

Friends.

“Do you want to try it?” Good Lord , why does my voice sound like that? It’s all breathy and soft.

He wets his own lips as his phone rings, breaking the moment. With a quick clear of his throat, he checks the screen where his dad’s name is large enough for both of us to see.

The energy changes once again when Rio’s glare hardens, looking at the screen then up to me. “I have to take this, but I’ll make it quick,” he says, slipping into a room down the hall before closing the door behind him.

I don’t give myself a moment to wonder what his relationship with his dad is like these days.

Because we’re friends. Professional, working friends.

Friends who stare at each other’s mouths, but friends, nonetheless.

And since I’m here doing my job, I take myself on a self-guided tour of the first floor.

Rio’s walls are all white, like he said. It doesn’t seem like anything has been done since the day he bought the house. Builder-grade gray carpet lines the living room, dining room, and hallway. The floor in the kitchen is a square tile with swirls of gray and beige, and the backsplash is a stark-white subway tile. The countertops are a black and tan granite with heavy contrast, and the cabinets are a dark faux wood.

There’s nothing innately wrong with this house. It’s still considered new when you think of the lifespan of a home, but it also doesn’t have much personality. And for this home to be Rio’s, the man who has more personality in his little finger than most people have in their whole being, feels wrong.

It’s also screaming frat house thanks to the empty liquor bottles lining the top of the cabinets and the Xbox in the living room, which has been transformed into a home theater, with more controls than I’ve ever seen attached to a single console. The furniture is mismatched, as if he just needed enough seating for everyone and couldn’t care less about the aesthetics of it all.

If there’s one thing this little tour of mine confirms for me, it’s that his friends and teammates spend a lot of their time off here, and space for them is a priority to him.

I’d write that down in my notebook if I felt like I needed the reminder, but him making others a priority is an ingrained part of him that I’ve known about since I was eleven.

The door to the first-floor bedroom opens, but Rio’s attention is glued to his phone as he ends the call with his dad. His jaw is tight, his nostrils flaring a bit on his way back to meet me.

I should ask if everything is okay, but us broaching the topic of either of our families right now would only blur that professional and friendly line we’re attempting to toe.

“Should we talk about design concepts?” I ask instead. “I brought some color palette examples so I could get an idea of what speaks to you.”

He glances at his phone one more time before he focuses back on me with a quick nod of his head. “I have no idea what that means, but yeah.”

I chuckle, taking a seat at the table while he chooses the one directly next to me, regardless that there are about six other options that’d give us some distance.

I allow him a moment to scan the books out on the table, some showcasing light and airy aesthetics, others a bit darker and moodier. Some have character in every inch of their designs and others are more simplistic and modern.

“Do any of these draw your eye? Do you see anything that you’d like to wake up to every morning?”

Waiting for his response, I pull my attention from the books to him.

Only to find him already looking at me.

“Do you still listen to music?” he asks out of nowhere.

“What?”

“When something big happens. Do you still attach a song to it so you can remember it when you relisten? The first day of a new house project, for example.”

Nostalgia floods me. All those nights on the roof between our houses. All the mixtapes and CDs I gave him over the years.

But there hasn’t been much good that’s worth remembering of late.

I shake my head, quickly averting my attention back to the design books. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Out of my periphery, I watch him grab his phone, tapping away on the screen before, suddenly, a smooth and steady rhythm begins to play over the surround-sound speakers in his house. The song is soft and melodic before a keyboard filters in, accompanying the beat.

I recognize it as a popular song we used to listen to growing up, but it never made one of the yearly playlists. He mentioned a few times that he felt it should’ve.

I turn his way, but now he’s fully fixated on the design books sprawled across his dining table.

“Focus, Hart.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it.

“Have I told you that you’re infuriating, DeLuca?”

“Not today.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “I’m not sure what I want. Regarding the house.”

“What catches your eye?”

He hunches over the table, roaming the different aesthetics, unable to land on one.

Green eyes look back at me. “If this were your house, what would you do?”

The answer sticks in my throat.

Because there was a time I thought I would be designing our house.

“I um...” I hesitate, finally pointing to a few of my favorite design books. “I like a mix, personally. Some traditional, and a combination of mid-century modern and organic modern. If it were my home, I’d add color and dimension to the walls with moldings and wallpapers and give each space its own story while also making it cohesive and functional, so that it’s livable but interesting.” I pause my rambling because this is something I’ve thought far too much about. “But this is your home, so it’s about what you like.”

He checks the different books I referenced. “I like that idea.”

“Which idea?”

“All of them.”

“Well, you have time to think it over. You don’t need to make a decision today.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve always had good taste, Hallie. I like your vision. I trust you.”

That last sentence feels big and heavy and meaningful. Maybe not to anyone else in any other situation, but for him to say that to me after everything, even if it’s simply regarding his home décor, it feels important somehow.

My confidence builds. “I think there are some cool things we could do to make the home unique to you. Interesting things we can do with art and your favorite music. That is, if you decide to keep the home instead of selling.”

“Could we look at both options? Designs that would be good for selling and ones that would be if I stayed?”

“Of course. That’s a smart idea.”

“Great.” His smile is eager and one I haven’t seen directed at me in a long time.

Look at us working together.

“Would it be okay if I took some before pictures of the house?” I ask. “For my social media.”

“But you don’t have social media.”

The statement is out of his mouth before he can think better of saying it, and the panic written on his face is screaming that he wishes he could take it back.

I can’t hold back my knowing grin. “How would you know? Have you looked for me or something?”

He scoffs. “No.”

My smile grows.

“Well... yeah, maybe I have. Maybe I was curious.” There’s a long pause before he adds, “More than once.”

That armor I try to wear around him chips away a bit, because, for so long, I was convinced he left Boston and forgot I existed.

“I looked you up a few times too,” I admit.

“Yeah?”

“Of course, Rio. But you weren’t hard to find. Famous hockey player that you are now and all.”

His face scrunches up in disgust at the word famous and he can try to deny it all he wants, but Rio was the talk of the neighborhood once he got drafted. And not having to hear the town fawn over him while I was heartbroken was the best part of moving back to Minnesota.

I motion towards the stairs. “Will you show me the second story?”

“About that.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, there’s not much to it, and I didn’t make the bed, so don’t judge me.”

I exhale a laugh but it’s simply to cover the nerves. There’s no part of me that wants to think about why his bed might be disheveled or who helped him get it to that state, yet here I am, fixating on that question.

Leaving my latte behind, Rio leads me up the stairs, showing me the two other empty bedrooms and the spare hall bathroom, then to the double doors at the end of the hallway. He opens them and stands aside to let me enter first.

White walls. Gray carpet. Tan duvet cover. Absolutely no personality in his own bedroom.

It’s nothing like the room he grew up in that had bits of him in every corner. Trophies on shelves, photos of his family and friends, posters of his favorite musical artists and sports teams. Endless Boston Bobcats memorabilia.

Any nerves I felt dissipate. There are no signs of another person being in here, at least not last night. His king-size bed is unmade on one side, while the opposite is tightly tucked and unslept in. The nightstand closest to his side of the mattress is cluttered with reading glasses, a water bottle, and Tylenol while the opposite is completely bare.

“It’s...” I search for the words. “Clean.”

“It’s boring, Hal.”

“It is boring.”

“I just...” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m going to say this to you as an interior designer and not as my...” He drifts off, not finishing that sentence. “But if I stay here, my hope is that one day, this room won’t be only mine.”

He wants me to design the room that he and his future wife might share. Where they’ll sleep next to each other. Where they’ll sleep with each other. Fucking lovely.

This will get me my dream job, I try to remind myself.

“Okay.” It’s the only thing I know to say that doesn’t expand on how much I hate the thought of me designing his future wife’s bedroom. I quickly cross the room, needing to get this over with so I can get out of here. “Two closets?” I ask, reaching out to grab the doorknob of one.

He rushes to meet me, holding his palm firmly against the closet door to keep it closed.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“We can leave this closet as is.”

“Can I at least look at it?”

“Nope.”

I eye him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird? If you remember, I was the one who found that Playboy magazine under your mattress when you were fifteen. It really can’t get much more embarrassing than that for you, Rio. Show me the closet.”

“Okay, as I told you a hundred times, that was Luke’s magazine. He was hiding it from your mom in my room.”

“Sure thing.” I reach for the knob again, but this time Rio places his entire body in front of the door to block me.

I can’t help but laugh in disbelief. “What are you hiding?”

He simply smiles down at me, his eyes light and bright.

This time, when I try to reach past him, he takes my wrist and in a swift move has me turned around with my back to his front and both my wrists trapped in a single one of his hands.

His laughter vibrates my whole body and I can’t help but mirror it with my own.

“So nosy, Hal,” he teases, walking us back to the center of the room.

But when we get there, he doesn’t let go and I don’t try to squirm away. My muscles don’t bunch in alarm. They loosen against him.

It feels like a drug, being this close to him, one that I used to be highly addicted to.

God, I missed him.

My throat works through a swallow. “I prefer the term ‘curious,’” I say in response, but the teasing has morphed into something different. Something heated.

His grip around my wrists loosens, but he doesn’t step away. His thumb swipes over my hand in a languid stroke, his breath dusting my ear, his chest pounding against my back.

This is decidedly outside of friends territory.

I spot a duffel bag on the floor in the corner of the room with his jersey number on it. “For example, I’m curious why you changed that.” I nod in the bag’s direction. “Your number.”

That’s what makes him step away. In fact, he creates distance as soon as the question is out of my mouth, his palm gliding over my hip bone as he does. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

Turning to face him, I open my mouth to tell him I don’t believe him when we both hear the front door unlock and open downstairs.

“Hi, honey!” a woman calls out from inside his house.

What the hell?

“Rio, are you home?” she continues. “I used the key you made me to get in.”

What the actual fuck?

My wide eyes shoot to Rio, but he’s just smirking down at me.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s just my friend, Indy.”

“I’m not worrying.”

“Tell your face that, Hal.”

“Where are you?” Indy calls from downstairs.

“Coming!” he shouts back. “Come on, Jealous.” Rio puts his hand on my lower back, leading me back to the stairs. “I’ll introduce you.”

“I’m not jealous,” I mutter under my breath.

When we make it back downstairs, it’s not only Indy waiting for him. There’s a total of four women hanging out in his kitchen. And sure, maybe I could admit that a bit of jealousy sparks, seeing them so comfortable in his home when I feel like a newbie here. But that jealousy quickly dies when I notice all four of them are wearing wedding bands on their ring fingers.

“Oh, it’s the whole crew,” Rio says, leading us into the kitchen to join them. “What are you all doing here?”

Every pair of eyes is locked on me and yeah, maybe that’d be intimidating if they weren’t all smiling at me a little too excitedly.

“Hello?” he asks, but they’re all looking right past him to me. “Okay, well fuck me, I guess. Hallie, this is Stevie, Indy, Miller, and Kennedy.” He gestures to each one as he says their names. “Everyone, this is Hallie. But I have a feeling you all already know that and she’s exactly why you’re here.”

I’m a bit envious of the community he has here in Chicago. He and I always had large circles of friends when we were younger, but the last few years have felt isolated from taking care of my dad. It’s one of the many reasons why I couldn’t have been more thrilled when Wren and I hit it off, but I’d love to expand my circle of friends in this city. Especially girlfriends.

I attempt to commit their names to memory.

Stevie with the curly hair and worn-in Nikes on her feet.

Indy with her blonde braid and Converse.

Miller with her tattoos and overalls.

Kennedy with the Vans and striking red hair.

“Hi,” I offer with a small wave.

“It is so great to meet you, Hallie.” Indy steps up, pulling me into an unexpected hug.

She holds on even tighter, and with my bulging eyes I catch the other three girls laughing over her shoulder.

“Ind,” Kennedy chuckles. “Not everyone is a hugger.”

“Well...” She releases me, still holding me at arm’s length. “Everyone should be.”

I smile at her. “I’m a hugger.”

Indy rejoins her girlfriends. “See? I like her already.”

“Hal,” Rio says. “You met Stevie’s husband, Zanders, last week after practice.”

I’m about to say something when Miller and Indy look at each other, hands over their hearts, crooning, “ Hal ,” as if that’s the most precious thing they’ve ever heard.

“Okay,” Rio cuts in. “I’m going to need my key back if you’re going to make things weird.”

“Definitely not making it weird.” Miller mimics zipping her lips, but then adds, “But first, can I ask, did Rio always bring the boombox everywhere? Like, all the time? And by all the time, yes, I’m referring to all the time .” She adds a wink for dramatic effect, her voice laced with insinuation.

“Miller Rhodes!” Kennedy smacks Miller’s shoulder with laughter.

“He didn’t need to bring it,” I tell her. “I had my own that he could use. Great taste in music even then. A lot of R&B during those times, if I remember correctly. And by those times, yes, I’m referring to those times .”

Miller smiles devilishly at my quick response. “Oh, I like you.”

Rio shakes his head, but he’s got this soft, thankful smile on his lips that absolutely does not make my stomach flip.

I’ve always had this innate need to protect him. Growing up, he was an easy target because he made himself the butt of the joke most of the time, but I didn’t play into that. He could be a joke to everyone else, but he was never a joke to me.

“So, what’s up?” Rio asks again. “What are you all doing here?”

“Just swinging by before the game,” Stevie says. “We wanted to say hi.”

He eyes them suspiciously. “You swung by? Twenty minutes out of your way.”

“Yep!” Indy chimes in. “There’s a babysitter watching all the kids at our place, we’re meeting up with the guys at the arena, and we knew you two were meeting here so we came to see if Hallie wants to join us in our box at your game tonight.”

“Indy,” Rio scolds quietly.

“What?”

“She can’t come. She’s busy.”

Ouch.

That doesn’t feel good to hear, but at the same time, it acts as an instant reminder to not let myself get too comfortable here. With him. In his house. With his friends. We’re simply working together right now. I’m not part of his everyday life anymore.

“Okay, rude,” Miller cuts in. “Love you so much, but we were asking her.”

“He’s right. I can’t make it,” I tell them. “But thank you for the invite.”

Rio could not look more guilty. “Or if you’re not busy, you could go,” he amends, tentatively looking in my direction. “If you wanted to.”

“Yes!” Kennedy encourages.

It sounds fun. Sitting in a box suite. Going to his game, just like I used to. Hanging out with these girls, who seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company and who care for Rio. But unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of affording a Friday night off work, even if there was any part of him that actually wanted me to go to his game and wasn’t offering out of guilt.

I keep my focus on the girls. “I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

“You have plans?” Rio repeats in a question.

A shift at the job he doesn’t know about, but yes. Plans .

“You should cancel those plans and come hang out with us,” Stevie suggests.

“Great idea, Vee,” Indy cuts in. “This is why you’re my favorite sister-in-law.”

“Yeah,” Rio agrees. “You should cancel those plans and hang with the girls.”

If we weren’t in front of his friends, I’d call him out for not wanting me around when he thought I didn’t have something better to do, but now that he knows I already made plans, he’s telling me to bail.

“I wish I could, but I can’t cancel.” Heading to the dining table, I gather my design books. “But thank you for the invite. Maybe next time.” I check my phone for the time. “I should get going. It’s almost the end of the workday, but it was so nice to meet you all.”

I give them all my best smile before bolting for the door.

I can hear Rio’s bare feet chase after me. “The end of the workday, huh?”

“Yes, and I need to be downtown by five.”

He meets me at the front door. “For your plans. On a Friday night.”

There’s a tic in his jaw that tells me he believes I’m going on a date.

I don’t correct him.

“Yep. I’ll email you with notes from today and let you know the next steps in the design process.”

He doesn’t even try to dance around it when he asks, “What are you doing tonight?”

I laugh in disbelief as I leave his house.

“Hallie.”

“You were the one who was quick to tell them I couldn’t join. You were right. I am busy.”

He closes his eyes in frustration, collecting himself. “That was just a reaction. The wrong reaction. I didn’t mean that you couldn’t join them. They’d love to have you.”

“It was the right reaction. Best not to get too comfortable while doing this job.” I cross the lawn to my house before calling back, “Good luck in your game.”