Page 5

Hallie

Lose him.

Lose him?

Where the hell did he find the audacity to say that to me after six years without seeing each other? Without speaking to each other?

Rio DeLuca can go ahead and fuck himself.

I mean, I did lose Brian, but not because I was told to. As soon as I could, I ran out of the arena and got a rideshare back to my car. Then I gave Tyler an earful this morning about doing his research before thinking of setting me up again.

But Rio believing he has any right to tell me who I can and can’t date? It’s clear now that sometime during the last six years he lost his goddamn mind.

He lives next door... again. What the hell did I do to earn this kind of bad luck? I’ve been overextending myself, trying to make ends meet financially, and now that I’ve finally found a place I can afford enough to keep from falling farther into debt, he ends up being the neighbor.

Yesterday was spent paranoid, periodically watching out my new bedroom window to make sure I wasn’t coming or going at the same time as him.

And I have to do that until May. How the hell am I going to avoid him until May?

“Hallie,” my name rings somewhere around me. “Did you hear me?”

I blink out of my daze to find the entire design team staring at me from their seats around the conference table.

“I’m sorry.” I sit up, adjusting in my chair. “What did you say?”

Tina shoots me a look from the front of the room, notepad in hand. She’s Tyler’s right-hand woman. She’s not a designer, by any means. There’s not a creative bone in her body and she’d tell you that herself, but she’s the organization and business brain behind Tyler Braden Interiors.

Even though I’ve been zoned out and not listening to a word of the meeting she’s facilitating, I like her.

“I was congratulating you on your next project,” she says. “A full house renovation and the client requested you specifically. Said he loved what you did to his neighbor’s home and put a deposit down on his project the same day as his inquiry.”

The entire team claps for me and I’m certain I can’t turn a deeper shade of red. My eye catches Tyler’s, sitting at the head of the table in his three-piece suit, beaming a proud smile and clapping for me along with the rest of my peers.

Well, they aren’t my peers per se. They’re mostly full-time designers who make a shit ton of money working for Tyler Braden. Then there’s me and the three other newbies who started working here this spring with the promise of a one-year internship. Tyler doesn’t always hire his interns full-time, but from what my coworkers have told me, if he’s impressed by my work, he most likely will.

Unfortunately for me, he’s not going to be very impressed when I tell him this project fell through.

“With how large this renovation is,” Tina continues, “it should take up the rest of your internship. Two full home renovations in your first year is impressive, Hallie.”

My attention falls on Silas, another one of the interns. He couldn’t look more annoyed with me, and I completely get it. He hasn’t had a solo project yet, and instead spends most of his days fetching coffee, shredding documents, and cleaning up after client meetings. If I didn’t have Wren’s house to work on this summer, I would’ve been there right along with him.

“This week, I’ll go over the client profile with you, and next week, you can meet with him face to face,” Tina says. “He’s a professional athlete, so he travels quite a bit. I know you can’t work evenings, but you may need to be flexible with your schedule on this project.”

I can’t work evenings because I’m already working... at my second job that no one here knows about.

“Oh, a professional athlete.” One of the designers whistles. “Which sport?”

Tina looks down at her notepad. “Hockey.”

“Hot.”

“Jealous.”

“I’ll be your second assistant on the project,” all echo around me.

Swallowing, I keep my eyes on the pen in my hand that I can’t stop tapping against the table. “Actually, that project fell through. For me, at least. There’s a...” I hesitate, still unable to look at anyone, namely Tyler. “Conflict of interest. I’m sure he’ll be calling soon to get someone else on the renovation.”

The room is silent around me, tension and judgment swirling around. It lingers that way for at least ten seconds, though it feels more like an hour, when I finally risk a glance in Tyler’s direction. Disappointment is written all over his face.

“That’s a shame to hear,” he finally says. Breaking eye contact with me, Tyler redirects his attention. “Tina, make sure we don’t lose that project, even if that requires me to be the lead designer on it instead. Find out who he’s comfortable working with, but we aren’t losing this client.”

“Of course.”

Shit.

I can feel the disappointment suffocating the room. I truly think if the entire design team started screaming at me about how much I suck at this job, things would feel less awkward than they do now.

I’m equally disappointed, but it’s out of my hands. This felt like my shot, my big opportunity to show Tyler what I’ve got, but I couldn’t have planned for Rio, of all people, to be the homeowner. What am I supposed to do?

I just need to find another renovation to finish out my internship, but when I glance up and catch Silas’s smug little smirk, it acts as a reminder that projects like these don’t come around often. And like him, I’ll be sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, and fetching coffee instead of stretching my design muscles if I don’t land another one.

The meeting goes on, but I’m only half listening. I’m too busy racking my brain for any contacts I might have that could potentially hire me. The stylist who cut my hair this summer said she’s going to open a new salon location. Maybe she needs a designer, or maybe she has a client who is in search of a new home office. Maybe I’ll get lucky and overhear somebody at the bar say something about building a new home they need help with. I need to get out of here and start hustling.

“Great meeting, everyone.” Tyler stands from his seat. “Let’s get some good work done this week and remember, I’m always here to bounce ideas off of.”

The rest of the team stand from their seats, chatting with each other as they exit the conference room. I get a couple sympathetic smiles on their way out, an encouraging squeeze on my shoulder.

None of it helps.

Tyler, fashionable motherfucker that he is, takes a seat on the conference table in front of me, long legs still firmly planted on the floor. “I don’t love that you just lost a major project.”

I shrug, attempting to act unaffected. “And I don’t love that you set me up with a married man this weekend, but here we are.”

Tyler narrows his eyes, staying silent for a beat. “Touché. I take full responsibility for that one.” The tension dissipates a bit. “Hallie, you’ve done such a good job so far and I’d love for you to be part of this team permanently, but I can’t hire you based on one renovation. I need to see more.”

“I know.”

He knocks the table with his knuckles before standing. “Find another project. I believe in you.”

Alone in the room, I lean back in my chair, eyes on the ceiling.

I need to fix this. I need to find another project because as much as I want to be a part of this design team, the facts are, I need to be. I need the salary that comes with it.

“Hallie,” Tina says, startling me.

I find her standing next to me as I sit.

“Tyler might have said you need to find another project, but what he really meant is that you need to find a way to get back on this one. I know you’ve already had one this summer, but an entire home renovation isn’t a common job, especially for an intern. Tyler wants to hire you, it’s obvious, and one way to ensure that happens is by getting yourself back on board as lead designer for this project. If Mr. DeLuca contacts me, I’ll stall on replacing you until the end of the week, but that’s the best I can do for you. Whatever it is, fix it, okay?”

Easier said than done.

I nod in agreement. “I’ll do my best. Thanks, Tina.”

Her sneaky smile lifts. “So, what’s the issue? Are you and his sister mortal enemies? Did you sleep with his best friend and never return a text?” She gasps. “Did you sleep with him, and it was so bad you can’t look him in the eye again?”

“He doesn’t have a sister and I’m pretty sure all his best friends are married.”

Her head sways from side to side. “Well, from what I hear, you have a thing for married men.”

I narrow my eyes. “I blame you as much as Tyler for that one. You’re a woman. You don’t set someone up before a full FBI-level social media stalking session.”

She laughs. “So, it’s the last one, then.”

Definitely not the last one.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” is all I say.

Parked in the back of the employee lot, I sit in my car, eating the homemade PB&J I made for lunch.

I stay out of sight during lunch hour because I don’t want to give my coworkers the chance to, once again, offer that I get in on their lunch delivery order. Mostly because I don’t have it in me to sit there, eating my borderline stale sandwich and say no, yet again, because I can’t afford it. My self-control dwindles every time I see one of my coworkers with a poke bowl or twenty-dollar salad at their desk.

And right on time, as I’m thinking of things I can’t afford, my alarm goes off, reminding me it’s the due date for one of my loan payments. I log on and pay fifty dollars over the minimum payment because that’s all I can afford this month, then I check my banking app to see what little money I had in my checking account dwindle down to almost nothing.

I have a different loan payment due next week and rent is due the week after that.

Yes, I make money at the design firm, but it’s nothing compared to what the full-time designers make. I’m in a learning program, and that paycheck has an end date to it if I don’t get hired onto the team. And sure, I have five shifts at the bar this week. That should cover my next two big bills. But then my phone bill is due, and it’s right on to worrying about how I’m going to cover the next month’s payments.

The cycle is never-ending. It feels like I’m drowning, even with my decreased rent, but there seems to be one clear way to keep my head above water.

As much as I don’t want to, I know what I have to do, and I’m not in a position where I can be above begging.

Back on my phone, I look up the Chicago Raptors game schedule for this season, needing to know what time I should plan to wait for him on his front porch steps tonight where I’m going to do my best pleading.

A quick Google search tells me they have a game in Columbus tomorrow, followed by two more games on the road. From what I remember him telling me years ago, the teams typically fly out the day before, and if the flight is short enough, they try to squeeze in a practice at home beforehand.

It’s a bit alarming how easy it is to find where their practice arena is—two blocks from here—and another quick search lets me know that the practices are open to the public. There’s no practice schedule online, but my desperation is reminding me I’ve got nothing to lose.

What else am I going to do? I have until the end of the week to rectify this, and it’s not like I have his number anymore.

So, I finish off my PB&J and start my walk to the rink.

It’s a crisp fall day and the walk is nice. Chicago is a bustling city. It’s not New York City busy, but its own version. Yes, the buildings are tall, and the streets are littered with people, but the lake is right there. There are beaches within walking distance of skyscrapers. A river flows through the center of it all, and I love it.

I enjoyed my years in Boston. Minneapolis too. But Chicago feels right .

Now, I need to figure out a way to stay.

When I get to the rink, the lot is full of cars, which seems like a positive sign. I should maybe take a moment to look for his truck before I head inside, but my nerves don’t allow me to slow down. A man exits as I approach the main entry door. He holds it open for me, but the crowd inside continues to file out, so I open the other door instead, going the opposite direction from the main flow of traffic.

I earn a few confused glances as I walk straight inside the emptying rink with faux confidence, but that mask slips when I immediately spot the black and red practice jerseys contrasted against the white of the ice.

The team is huddled around their coaches, and it takes everything not to go running back to work as fast as I can. But I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain, so I follow the curve of the rink around to the side the players will exit the ice before going to the locker room.

On the side that’s clearly not meant for the general public, I wait while their team meeting finishes, sitting awkwardly by myself on a cold metal bench next to a random boombox.

The team begins to file off the rink, shooting the shit with each other as they pass. I earn more confused glances from them, but no one asks what I’m doing in an area that I shouldn’t be in.

One of the players passes by the bench I’m sitting on, eyes assessing me before bouncing to the boombox at my side. “Rio!” he shouts, and my stomach instantly drops. “Don’t forget your shitty boombox!”

“It’s not shitty,” I hear Rio say as he takes a step off the ice. “It’s well-loved. Big diff—”

His attention immediately lands on me, halting him in place, standing steady on the blades of his skates. His eyes don’t leave me for even a moment as he removes his helmet and lets it hang at his side.

Sweat trickles from his forehead, rolling over those dark brown waves. You’d think his hair was black unless you’ve been close enough to run your fingers through it.

I clearly didn’t give myself the chance to really look at him the other night. It was too dark out. I was in shock, too stunned by seeing him in person after all these years to really see him.

Yes, I may have looked him up online a few times over the years. So what? I was curious. It’s human nature to be curious. But those two-dimensional photos were nothing compared to the real thing.

Dark hair. Olive undertone to his skin. Height that was genetically gifted and ridges of muscles that were hard-earned.

I’ve always been attracted to Rio DeLuca, and it pisses me off that nothing has changed. Even during those awkward early years when everyone else saw him as a friend, I always saw him as more. Then he had himself a glow-up in the middle of high school, shot up about six inches, and finally those other girls saw what I always did.

But this version of him—twenty-seven years old and bulked up from the NHL—feels cruel to have to witness. He’s fucking gorgeous, but it doesn’t change that I still want to hate him.

“Don’t give him shit for his boombox,” another player says as he steps off the ice. He has the number eleven on his practice jersey, and I remember the name “Zanders” was written across the back from the game on Saturday. “He’s the only reason we have decent music in the locker room.”

“That piece of shit doesn’t even have Bluetooth!” someone else adds.

Rio doesn’t look away from me the entire time. He doesn’t engage in the conversation around him. His teammates have to move around his frozen form to get to the locker room, and it only draws more attention to us.

Zanders pauses next to him, following Rio’s line of sight until he finds me. His attention goes right back to his teammate, and he continues that back and forth a few more times.

The silence is screaming that there’s a story here and Zanders picks up on it when he asks, “And who is this?” in a far too amused tone.

“No one,” I say at the same time Rio says, “Hallie.”

His tone is gentle when he says my name, and for a moment I think maybe he forgot about the jaded history between us.

The silence lingers again.

“My neighbor,” he finishes after blinking his way out of his stare. “She moved in with Wren.”

That doesn’t even begin to explain who he and I have been to each other over the years, but it’s enough that Zanders doesn’t press the issue. He simply removes his glove and reaches his hand out to shake mine while introducing himself.

“Well, I’m going to leave you two to whatever the hell is making this moment so awkward,” Zanders finishes while joining the rest of the team headed to the locker room. “Nice to meet you, Hallie.”

I offer a wave to his back. “You too.”

“What are you doing here?” Rio must remember that we’re more enemies than friends these days, judging by the sharp bite to his question.

That’s the moment I decide to stand, as if anything could make up the height between us. He’s a solid 6’3” barefoot, and now with his skates, he’s got to be around 6’7”.

I’m more than a foot shorter than that, and with the heavy bulk his pads add to his frame, I couldn’t feel smaller.

But I can’t. I need to be big. I need to find my assertiveness. I need to figure out a way to get us both what we want, while reminding him that what he wants is me .

As a designer, I mean. I was the designer he requested to work on his house until he realized our history.

“I need you to let me do your home renovation.”

Rio scoffs a laugh and walks right past me, not even bothering to spare me a “no.”

I grab his arm to stop him, and I wish I hadn’t. Even through his jersey and undershirt, I can feel the muscle he’s added to his forearms in the years since I last saw him.

He stops, staring down at my hand that’s holding him, so I quickly remove it.

“Sorry.”

I rarely felt embarrassed around Rio in the past, but that’s certainly changed between this interaction and the last.

His glare hardens, and for a moment I wonder if it’s odd for him to despise me so much. Hatred was never a natural inclination for the lovable boy I grew up with.

“Please.” My tone is soft, but the desperation is clear. “I need this.”

Those green eyes soften, searching mine, and I swear I see him. The person I was most comfortable with. The one who knew what I needed without me having to ask. The person who knew me better than I sometimes knew myself.

But then he reminds me that we aren’t those people anymore when he simply says, “Not a chance.”

“Rio, I’m begging you.”

“Well, stop begging then, Hallie. It’s not going to work. There’s not a dollar amount in the world you can bribe me with to allow you to spend every day of the next six months in my house.”

Ouch.

I nod my head once. “Well, I guess it’s good that I don’t have a dollar to spare for that bribe, even if I wanted to.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It means that I need this job, Rio. I desperately need this job. Do you really think I’d allow myself to come begging to you if I didn’t?”

His eyes once again search my face for the answer. “Why?”

I can’t give him the detailed explanation—that I need this salary to pay off my debt—because there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to explain why I’m in that kind of debt. And I know him. I know that will be his next question.

But it’s clear I need to give him something.

“I’ve got a shot at my dream job here.”

“Okay. How about you find a dream job in a different city then?”

I don’t let that response linger. “I’m interning for this big-time firm, and I could get hired on as a full-time designer at the end of it, but I need another project to showcase what I’ve got.”

“Find a different project then,” he says simply. “Preferably in a different city.”

“Can you get over that already? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, so deal with it.”

His jaw hardens.

“As far as the project goes,” I continue, “it’s not that easy to find a new one. Not for an intern, at least. I got lucky with Wren’s house and even luckier when you accidentally asked for me.”

At that moment, a few of Rio’s coaches skate off the ice.

“Leaving for the airport in ten, DeLuca,” one of them says as they pass by us.

“Yes, sir.” He nods. “I’m on my way.”

The coaches all slip into the locker room.

Rio’s defenses seem to fall a bit once it’s truly only us again, like he’s tired of all of this. “I don’t want to hire you, Hal.”

As much as I want to, I don’t correct the nickname he used to call me by.

“I know.”

“I don’t want you in my house. I don’t want to have to see you every day.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I watch the way his fingers flex around his texture. “Fuck, Hallie, before Saturday, I thought I’d never see you again.”

The words come out with a painful edge, and I’d be lying if I said they didn’t slip past my armor and land a hit. Most of me never thought I’d see him again either.

“I know.”

Just when I think he may change his mind and tell me he’ll let me do the project, he grabs his boombox off the bench and exhales. “I have to go. We’re leaving on a road trip for the week.”

Every part of me wants to ask him if he’s already called the firm and requested my replacement or if he’s planning to call later. But he seems overwhelmed just from my being here, so I don’t.

Instead, I stop him by asking, “What’s up with the ancient boombox?”

He rears back playfully. “Watch yourself, Hart. I believe the term you’re looking for is classic .”

I try not to let the smile tick up on my lips, but it finds its way there for a brief moment. “What’s up with the classic boombox?”

He shrugs. “It still works. Why replace what’s not broken? And the guys can give me shit for it all they want, but I’m the only one on the team with good taste in music.”

“You’re welcome for that.”

He laughs, deep and full, and I feel it through every nerve in my body.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that sound, and I missed it.

“Bullshit,” he says through his laughter. “You’re welcome for your taste in music.”

“What kind of delusional state are you living in, DeLuca?”

Those dimples sink into his cheeks, that glimpse of my old Rio coming back to life. “There was a solid year when you only listened to boy bands. And when we were together, you wouldn’t let me listen to anything else either.”

“Exactly! It’s called taste. Look it up.”

“You once told me the wrong band’s name when we were listening to a mixtape you made me because you genuinely didn’t know the difference between them. They all sounded the exact same.”

I laugh and it feels nice. Light and nostalgic. “God, how do you remember that? That was forever ago.”

“Hard to forget the years you had shit taste in music, Hal. It’s been burned into my memory and not in a good way.” His attention drifts back to the locker room as if he wants to leave the playful shit-talking before it gets too comfortable. “I really do have to go. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

I nod in understanding, letting that easy moment between us pass. “Okay.”

He doesn’t turn away immediately, but eventually he does, pausing in the entryway of the locker room. He speaks to me without looking back in my direction. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you an answer on the renovation right now.”

“I get it.”

He breathes a laugh to himself. “Do you, though?” Those pleading green eyes look at me over his shoulder. “Five minutes and it feels like that again, like nothing happened. Imagine six months. I don’t want it to be like that again. After everything, it can’t.”

Because I didn’t tell him the truth all those years ago. He doesn’t want to forgive me for it.

Well, I don’t want to forgive him either.

“I do get it.” Entirely defeated, I simply nod. “Have a good road trip, Rio.”

With that, I don’t spare him another glance. I leave, walking back to the job I’ll only have for another six months.