Page 9 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charley

“ Y ou sure you don’t mind?” I ask, as I hold one of Rip’s big T-shirts against my chest.

“Nah, I have lots. We can run to town later though, if you like, and get you some new clothes. I usually like to go for a walk after the sun goes down.”

The thoughts of going into town makes my stomach knot.

Recognition, whispers, phone cameras. It’s the kind of attention I’m trying to avoid.

Still…I didn’t exactly pack for an extended hideaway.

No big comfy clothes to lounge in. No chill out vibes.

“I supposed we could go later, after dinner,” I say casually. Breezy. Not at all panicked.

Is that why he waits until after dark, so no one will notice him?

“There’s also a pub that does Karaoke.” He wags his brow playfully. “You could show me your singing skills.”

“Only if you show me yours.”

He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head at me, looking utterly adorable. “Haven’t we been over this?”

I snort and duck into the bathroom before his ridiculous cuteness can fry the last of my brain cells.

I get out of my sun-dried clothes and into his roomy T-shirt with my only other pair of yoga pants.

I check myself in the mirror. Flushed Cheeks.

Beach hair. An oversized shirt that smells like him.

Honestly, not the worst look. Not that I’m trying to impress anyone here.

When I come out, Rip has changed too. He’s in a clean t-shirt, new shorts, beachy and delicious like an ad for rugged seaside living. He jerks his thumb toward the door. “I’m going to the market. Join me?”

I hesitate. I want to. But Rip likely draws attention like a lighthouse in the dark. Even if no one no one here knows he’s an NHL star, that face and body would break necks anywhere.

“I think I’ll stay here.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t press and I’m grateful. “So…dinner. No fish?”

“I’m not opposed to fish that I didn’t have to catch, or…” I gulp. “Well, you get it.”

“Did you see the fire pit outside. I thought fish over the grill for dinner would be nice. Then maybe later, after the sun sets, we can have a bonfire.”

“I love that.” A weird little bubble of excitement wells up inside of me. The last time I grilled fish over a fire was…never.

He grabs his wallet off the table and shoves it into the side pocket of his shorts. “Be back in a minute. Anything you need.”

“I’d like to make something to go with the fish?”

“Salad?” He blinks, looking hopeful and something tells me the only vegetable he’s eaten lately has come on his fast-food burger.

“Sure and maybe potatoes?” I grin. “I’m getting my carbs when I can.”

“Right carbs. Fish with only salad is stupid.”

“For a minute there I thought you were a monster.”

He lets out a deep belly laugh, one that makes his whole-body shake. It does something funny to my insides.

“Want do you need?” he asks when the laughter dies down. I reach for my purse and he waves a hand to stop me. “I got it Charley.”

I arch a brow. “I crash a peaceful cottage getaway and now you’re grocery shopping to feed me. I must have won the jackpot.”

“Seems like you did.”

“Healthy ego.” I give him a slow nod. “I like it. But seriously, I’m all about paying my own way, Rip.”

“You will.” He flashes a grin, on hand on the doorknob. “I’m not letting you off that easy.”

My stomach flips. What exactly does he mean by that?

He pauses, his smile softening. “The truth is, I’m benefitting too,” he continues. “A man can’t live on fish alone and I wouldn’t know how to put a salad together with a step-by-step YouTube tutorial.”

I laugh. “A fish you have to buy because I make you throw that one back.”

“It’s possible I’m still bitter about that,” he teases, even though it’s clear he’s not.

“I’ll make up for it by making salads all week.”

“Then you’re forgiven.”

“But hey, you know what they say buy a man a fish and you feed a man for a day, teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”

He lets out a loud snort and I have to say, I love our easy banter.

“I did teach you to fish and look how that turned out for my dinner.” He laughs.

“Honestly, you’re saving me from living off takeout and junk,” he says, patting his admittedly rock-solid stomach.

“I’ve missed my morning runs lately. When this vacation is over, I can’t roll back into real life looking like a couch potato.

I don’t want…” he catches himself, hesitates a beat.

“I mean “…yoga is a good replacement for running.”

I don’t ask him why he can’t run. I already know. “Well,” I say gently, “That makes me feel a little less guilty for crashing your solitude.”

“Guilt is overrated.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me a list.” Just as he taps the screen, it buzzes. He goes still.

A flicker of something—tightness in his jaw, the subtle flattening of his mouth. He reads the message, doesn’t respond, just swipes it away and opens a notes app instead.

Maybe it’s his ex. Maybe she’s ready to be “on again.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, heading for the fridge.

“Yeah.” The answer comes a beat too quick. He taps again, posture casual but eyes just a little distant. “Tell me what you need.”

Wow. Loaded question.

But no, girlfriend. You do not need to see this man naked. You do not need his hands on her body, his mouth on yours.

That’sa want, not a need, and I don’t give in to wants anymore.

I open the fridge. It’s practically empty, just energy drinks, milk, and bottled water.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“A couple of weeks.”

I glance over my shoulder. “We seriously need to get something green into you.”

“You’re not wrong.”

I rattle off a list of vegetables, and when I’m done, he tucks his phone away.

“Back soon,” he promises, voice low and sure.

The door closes with a soft click, and silence folds in around me.

I cross my arms over my chest and stand still, just for a second, letting the quiet settle.

I thought I wanted quiet. After months of grinding it out in noisy bars, after weeks on that chaotic reality TV show, I was craving peace. Stillness. Anonymity.

But now…I don’t know. Maybe it would have been different had I not woken up to find Big Bear in the kitchen. He’s easy to be around. Too easy. I’m adjusting to his company faster than I should be. Craving it even.

I move through the small cottage, checking the cupboards and drawers. It’s a single guy’s setup—oatmeal, protein powder, cereal, Pop-Tarts. Of course Rip Hart eats Pop-Tarts. Somehow that tracks. I shake my head, smirking, and head for the door.

Outside, a warm ocean breeze kisses my skin. I sink into one of the folding chairs and let the sun work its magic. Somewhere down the beach, kids are playing, their laughter drifting on the wind. Seagulls circle overhead, scavenging like feathery pirates.

God, I’d forgotten how much I love the beach.

I close my eyes and, for the first time in ages, my thoughts aren’t consumed by my ex. Or the tabloid disaster that has flattened me. Instead, I think about the man I’m sharing a roof with.

Kind. Thoughtful. Funny as hell.

And now I’m grinning like an idiot, picturing him in a pair of cartoonish water wings.

Honestly? I might need to find a boat, just to make that dream come true.

Inside, my phone pings, and my eyes snap open. Rip?

Nope. We didn’t exchange numbers. And it’s not like I have friends regularly checking in on me.

I push to my feet and step inside, spotting a message from my brother.

Just a check-in. I text him back, and soon we’re chatting about his wedding in August. I try to match his excitement, but the knot in my stomach tightens.

The thought of facing our parents again, the hovering cloud of media attention—it’s all going to be the icing on a very bitter cake.

Needing air, I wander around the cottage, ending up in the lounge chair tucked into the fenced backyard. I close my eyes and let my mind drift—to music, lyrics, melodies. This whole hideaway could become a song one day. A whole album, even.

Eventually, I open my phone and dive into a book. The words pull me in, and for a while, I forget where I am. Until I hear the door. I’m up in an instant, practically skipping toward the sound like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Hey,” I say, trying to rein in my enthusiasm. Cool, Charley. Be cool. “Did you get everything? I’m starving.”

“Got everything,” Rip says, holding up a bag. Then, grinning, he pulls out a box. “And this.”

“S’mores?” I gasp. “What was that you just said about being a couch potato?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

“At least I’m not sneaking cinnamon rolls every night like my buddy Roman.”

“Roman?” I tilt my head. Is he referring to Roman Marinelli?

“My best friends growing up,” he supplies. “Still is.”

“Nice,” I say, trying not to sound envious. “I lost touch with most of my high school friends.”

Something in me clenches tight, and I quickly turn to the bag to hide the sudden pang of loneliness. I start unloading fresh produce. “This looks amazing. Wait, did you remember?—”

“Potatoes?” he says with mock seriousness. “Of course. I value my life.”

“Smart man.” I laugh, washing a cucumber and placing it on the cutting board. Rip sets the potatoes beside me, and the sound of my stomach growling fills the space between us.

God, I’ve been depriving myself for so long, maybe trying to earn my mother’s approval, maybe punishing myself for being so difficult, disobedient. But not this week. This week, things are being done differently.

Rip must catch something in my expression. “I still don’t get why your parents think you were disobedient,” he says gently. “Teenage years are brutal for everyone. I was no saint.”

“I never actually thought you were,” I tease, slicing the cucumber.

I hold a piece out for him to take. Instead of grabbing it, he leans in and eats it—straight from my fingers.

All righty then.

He bumps his shoulder into mine, playful but firm enough to make me sway. “Don’t act like you know me,” he warns playfully.

If only he knew…

“Careful,” I reply, grinning. “I’m the one with the knife.”

I toss the cucumber into the bowl, pretending not to feel the sizzle in the air between us.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, clearly improvising as he pulls a butcher-paper-wrapped package from the bag. He unfolds it proudly. “I’m the one with the fish.”

I raise a brow. “And that’s supposed to mean…?”

He shrugs, already chuckling as he folds foil around the fish. “Absolutely no idea.”

We’re both laughing now, shoulder to shoulder in the tiny kitchen, and suddenly the world feels a little lighter, the future a little less terrifying.

“Thanks, Rip,” I say quietly.

He looks over at me, his smile softening into something that hits low in my chest. “You’re welcome, Charley,” he says, like he knows that thank you goes deeper than giving me a place to stay, dan food to eat. Then he adds, “Thank you too.”

It’s simple, but there’s weight behind it. Like he knows more than he’s letting on.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he knows I do too.

It’s interesting, because we’re both in hiding, but I have the feeling the universe brought us together for a reason, and that we’re both exactly where we need to be.

Then again, I’ve been wrong before.