Page 6

CHAPTER FIVE

Reggie

I glance over at Kenzie in the passenger seat as Ambrose drives, noting the way her fingers nervously fidget with the frayed hem of her jacket.

The silence from her has been palpable since we left the hospital, broken only by an annoyed sigh when Ambrose had insisted she sit up front to keep her bandaged hand elevated.

Braden, who’s seated in the back, is humming along to the radio, seemingly oblivious to the tension simmering between her and Ambrose, the melody masking the undercurrent of unease.

“You sure you don’t wanna call your folks?” I ask, keeping my voice light and casual. “They might wanna know you just had your hand turned into bird food.”

The attempt at humor hangs in the air as Kenzie exhales, a long and slow release of breath that seems to carry a weight of its own. “No, I really don’t.”

I catch Braden’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he raises an eyebrow, a silent exchange of curiosity reflecting my own thoughts. “Seems like you don’t wanna go to Ambrose’s either,” I add, noticing the slight stiffening of her posture, a telltale sign that my words have struck a nerve. “That gonna be a problem?”

Her head snaps toward me, lips parting as if she’s about to argue, but then she clamps her mouth shut.

Instead, she shakes her head, a curt motion that contradicts her words. “It’s fine.” But the tension in her clipped voice betrays her, hinting at something deeper than mere workplace camaraderie, something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

I decide not to pry, at least not yet, but the observation is tucked away for later.

Braden, less inclined to patience, breaks the silence with a teasing tone. “Damn, did he steal your lunch money or something?” he jokes.

Kenzie lets out a laugh, but it’s hollow, devoid of genuine amusement. Whatever’s happening beneath the surface, it’s tangled her in knots, and the strain is as visible as the tension in the air around us.

I shift in my seat, watching as the vibrant city lights blur into streaks against the darkened window. Snow flurries dance under the soft glow of the street lamps, their delicate flakes twirling gracefully to the ground and making the roads slick.

Yet, Ambrose maneuvers the car with an effortless skill, as if driving in foul weather were as natural to him as breathing.

It's only been a week since Braden and I moved in with him, and the arrangement has been surprisingly smooth.

Ambrose is older than us, sure, but he defies the stereotype of the grumpy, stuck-up hockey veteran I had imagined. Instead, he exudes a calm, collected energy, serious when necessary but laid-back otherwise.

Despite juggling the responsibilities of being a single dad, he’s remarkably easy to live with.

So why is Kenzie behaving as if he’s a walking disaster zone?

“Everything good over there?” Ambrose inquires, his eyes fixed steadily on the road ahead.

Kenzie nods stiffly, her fingers twitching with an unspoken tension. “Yeah. Just tired.”

An obvious fib, but once again, I decide to let it slide.

I glance at Braden, who’s reclined against the seat with his eyes closed, as if already plotting a nap the moment we arrive home.

It figures, on the ice, he’s all smoothness and agility, but off it, he swings between the boundless energy of a golden retriever and the aloofness of a cat with no in-between.

“How’s Wyatt?” I ask trying to break the ice. Talking about his son softens him up every time.

He clears his throat, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his jaw. “Good. He hates flying alone, but he’s getting used to it.”

Wyatt is eight years old and splits his time between his mom in Grand Forks and Ambrose. I know Ambrose hates putting him on that plane and saying goodbye.

Kenzie watches Ambrose talk about Wyatt, her posture finally easing a bit.

I chuckle, deciding to shatter the lingering tension with a touch of humor. "My mum’s quite the worrier too. Back home in Scotland, she can’t go more than two days without checking in on me. If I don’t answer the phone, she’s convinced I’ve been devoured by a bloody bear or something outlandish like that."

Kenzie’s lips curve into a small, reluctant smile. “You don’t have to worry about bears in town.”

"Aye, but she doesn’t realize that," I smirk, a hint of mischief in my voice. "She just frets because she’s got nothing else to fill her time. That, and keeping an eye on my perpetually tipsy da ."

Braden snickers from his seat in the back, but I notice Kenzie’s expression soften. She shifts slightly, tucking her legs up beneath her on the seat.

"I get it," she murmurs, her voice a gentle whisper. "Parents like that mean well, but they can be…suffocating."

Her words pique my curiosity. I tilt my head, studying her face, trying to read the story beneath her guarded exterior. "Is that what your folks are like?"

There’s a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she weighs how much to reveal.

Then she exhales a sigh, a whisper of resignation. "Yeah. My parents are, well, let’s just say they’re on the extreme end of traditional."

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "How extreme we talkin’? Catholic guilt or full-on Amish?"

She snorts, a sound that’s both amused and exasperated. "Somewhere in between. Think old-school fundamentalists. The kind that believe women should be seen, not heard."

I wince at the thought. "Oof. That explains a lot."

Kenzie sighs again, rubbing her temple with her good hand, as if trying to massage away the weight of her thoughts. "They mean well. They think they’re doing what’s best for me. But…I don’t exactly fit the mold."

I exchange a glance with Braden, who is now watching her intently, his freckled face alight with curiosity. There’s something in her statement, a hidden depth that suggests there’s a much bigger story waiting to be told.

Kenzie gazes out the window, her fingers rhythmically drumming against the bandaged section of her hand. The bandage, a stark white against her skin, wraps around her fingers like a soft cocoon.

“They wanted me to stay in Ohio, marry some nice church-going man, pop out a few kids, and live the perfect small-town life,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of sarcasm.

“And instead, you ran off to the big city to wrestle macaws for a livin’?” I quip, a teasing smirk playing on my lips.

Her laughter rings out, genuine and unrestrained, filling the car with warmth. “Pretty much. Though, I prefer ‘licensed veterinarian for exotic and domestic animals’, thank you very much,” she retorts, a playful glint in her eyes.

I chuckle, nodding. “Fancy title.”

“Damn right,” she replies with a satisfied nod.

Ambrose guides the car into his driveway, the tires crunching against the snow-packed pavement.

The house looms before us. The porch light casts a soft halo against the frost-covered steps, each crystal sparkling like tiny diamonds.

Kenzie shifts in her seat, bracing herself as if preparing for an unwelcome confrontation, but I continue to watch her closely.

“So, that why you left?” I ask, aiming for a casual tone. “Wanted to get away from all that?”

Kenzie exhales deeply, her breath visible in the cold air. “That’s part of it. Minneapolis gave me freedom. A chance to start over. To be my own person,” she explains, her voice laced with a mixture of relief and resolve.

That, I can understand. I left home too, but I did it on my terms. Kenzie, though, something tells me she didn’t just leave. She escaped.

Braden, apparently picking up on the undercurrent, nudges her gently. “Well, for what it’s worth, we think you’re cool as hell.”

She snorts, a sound filled with both amusement and disbelief. “That’s because you don’t know me well enough yet.”

I grin as Ambrose turns off the engine, the soft hum fading into silence. “Oh, don’t worry, doc. We’ve got time.”

Kenzie rolls her eyes, yet I catch the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips as we step out of the car into the crisp evening air.

Braden shakes his head, leaning back against the plush seat of the car. “Damn, that’s a bummer, but I get it. Some families are just like that.” His voice carries an edge of understanding, tinged with a hint of something unsaid, but he casually waves it off. “Reggie’s family is uptight too, and I still don’t get how he tolerates them.”

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head with amusement. “They’re not uptight, ya eejit . It’s called tradition. And besides, most of ‘em are back in Scotland, so if I don’t feel like listenin’, I don’t.”

Kenzie smirks at that, shifting in her seat, her eyes glinting with curiosity. “Wait, your dad is traditional? I thought you said he was a drunk?”

I flash her a wicked grin, feeling the cold metal against my fingers as I pop open the car door. “ Lass , it’s tradition in Scotland to be a drunk.”

Braden bursts into laughter as we all step out, our shoes crunching against the thin layer of snow that blankets the driveway.

The air is crisp and biting, filled with the distant scent of chimney smoke wafting from nearby homes.

Kenzie pulls her coat tighter around herself, her breath forming small clouds in the cold night air like little puffs of smoke. I hold the door open as she steps inside, watching the way her eyes flick around, absorbing the cozy warmth and inviting glow of the house.

The moment we step inside, the house's warmth envelops us, gently replacing the biting chill from outside with a comforting embrace.

Kenzie pauses just inside the entryway, her eyes sweeping over the living room.

It’s a reasonably nice house, spacious, modern, and practical, but it unmistakably bears the mark of three grown men living in it without a keen eye for interior design.

The living room is dominated by a massive sectional couch, its dark fabric contrasting with the sleek yet unadorned coffee table in front of it. An enormous flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, commanding attention.

The walls are barren, devoid of pictures, art, or any form of decoration. The only indication that people actually inhabit this space is the small collection of empty water bottles and protein bar wrappers scattered carelessly on the side table, a testament to the casual, lived-in feel.

Kenzie raises an eyebrow and turns towards us, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “This is…very minimalistic,” she comments.

I sink into the couch beside her, a smirk playing on my lips. “Aye, well, we’re function over fashion kind of guys,” I quip.

Braden joins us, sprawling out comfortably beside her. “What, you were expecting some Pinterest-perfect home with matching throw pillows and scented candles?” he teases.

Kenzie grins, a playful glint in her eyes. “I don’t know…a plant maybe? Something that makes it look like actual humans live here?” she suggests, her gaze sweeping the room once more.

Before we can reply, a rich, mouthwatering aroma of garlic and butter drifts in from the kitchen, causing my stomach to rumble in anticipation.

“What brand of Alfredo sauce do you guys use?” Kenzie inquires.

From the kitchen, Ambrose scoffs, his voice carrying a hint of mock offense. “Store bought? Hell no, I’m making it from scratch.”

Kenzie’s mouth drops open in surprise. “A man who cooks from scratch? This I gotta see,” she exclaims, her interest clearly piqued by the unexpected revelation.

I smirk at her reaction. “Told you, lass . There’s more to Ambrose than meets the eye.”

She whistles, clearly impressed, and settles back against the couch.

Braden nudges her lightly. “So, what do you do for fun, vet girl? I know you wrangle angry macaws for a living, but what else?

Kenzie’s eyes light up. “Honestly? I’ve always wanted to travel more. Backpack across Europe, maybe run a few half-marathons in places I’ve always wanted to visit. But you know…life gets in the way.

Braden whistles low. “Backpacking and running? Damn, we might have to get you a membership to our club.

Kenzie tilts her head. “Club?

I grin. “Braden’s a backpacker. I run ultra-marathons. And Ambrose, well, he’s the insane one. He does both and writes books about it.”

Kenzie blinks. “Wait, Ambrose writes books?”

Braden laughs. “You should see his house in Grand Forks. The man’s got stacks of books about endurance sports, and his name’s on half of them.”

Kenzie shakes her head, clearly intrigued. “So… hockey’s not his real passion?”

I shrug. “Dunno. Guess you’d have to ask him.”

Braden stretches out, nudging Kenzie’s knee with his own. “Anyway, if you ever decide to get serious about the whole backpacking dream, you’ve got three expert guides right here.”

Kenzie grins, but before she can reply, Ambrose’s voice cuts through from the kitchen. “All right, someone get in here and help.”

Braden and I exchange a look before hopping up. Kenzie follows a beat later, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

The kitchen is enveloped in the rich, creamy aroma of butter, garlic, and parmesan, as Ambrose expertly stirs a simmering pot of sauce on the stove.

The pasta water roils in a vigorous boil, sending plumes of steam skyward to fog the polished stainless steel vent hovering above.

Kenzie leans casually against the counter, her eyes fixed on Ambrose with a look that’s a blend of admiration and amusement, her lips curling into a subtle smile. “I can’t believe you’re actually making this from scratch,” she marvels, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Ambrose, focused on his task, doesn’t lift his gaze as he showers the sauce with a flurry of freshly grated parmesan. “What, you think hockey players just live off protein shakes and meal prep containers?” he quips, humor lacing his words.

“Yes,” Kenzie replies with deadpan precision, her retort drawing a burst of laughter from Braden and me, echoing warmly through the cozy kitchen.

Ambrose smirks, finally allowing himself a glance at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, surprise. Some of us actually know our way around a kitchen,” he retorts with a playful wink.

I grab a cutting board, its surface smooth and worn from use, and start chopping a bundle of fresh parsley, the vibrant green sprigs releasing their earthy fragrance into the air. “Ambrose is the dad of the house, didn’t you know?” I chuckle, looking over at Braden.

Braden snickers, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Yeah, and we’re his dumbass kids,” he adds, his voice light with camaraderie.

Kenzie laughs, the sound pure and unguarded, and for the first time tonight, she seems completely at ease.

The tension melts from her shoulders, and her eyes, no longer darting anxiously as if plotting an escape, are bright and content.

She just looks…happy.

And that’s when a realization strikes me with clarity.

I like this lass , a lot. Not just in the superficial “she’s hot” way, though undeniably, she is.

No, in a deeper sense, where I genuinely want to unravel the layers of who she is.

I exchange a glance with Braden and Ambrose, and their expressions mirror my own revelation. It’s clear we’re all thinking the same damn thing.

Kenzie Wood might just be the kind of trouble we don’t mind getting into.