Page 2

Chapter Two

Lainey

I’m barely out of my old Camry when Bash’s dog, Bruce Wayne, comes out to greet me, drool flying from his mouth as he runs.

I bend, smiling at the huge gray Great Dane. “Hey, Brucey!”

He prances in a couple of excited circles, then shakes his butt as I rub his back and head. A gentle giant, he’s a hundred and sixty pounds of well-trained cuddle bug.

“Hey, you made it.”

My heart does a little leap when I see my brother’s longtime best friend walking down the wide stone stairs of his home’s front entrance. He’s not my crush anymore, but my nervous system didn’t get the memo. Bash is wearing gray shorts, a light-blue polo and—damn him—a backward baseball hat.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream and my heart rate kicks up as he approaches, grinning lazily. I reason with myself. It’s not really butterflies in my stomach—it’s blood diverting from my digestive system toward my organs and muscles.

That backward baseball hat and grin still get me every time, even after all these years.

“Leave her alone, Bruce.”

His distinctive gruff baritone voice stimulates the butterflies to flap even harder. He used to deejay at the high school radio station, and I never missed a second of his airtime. I had it so bad for him, even at age twelve.

He’s six foot two and I’m five foot five, so when he hugs me, my face only reaches his shoulder. It’s kind of like hugging a brick wall, his broad chest and shoulders hard with muscle. But brick walls don’t smell like eucalyptus and rich, woody amber.

I pull back, overwhelmed by being so close to my childhood crush, smelling his cologne and feeling his pecs.

“Did you know amber comes from fossilized tree resin?” I blurt, trying to get my racing heart to calm. “It takes thousands of years for the scent to develop. That’s why perfume makers combine other scents to replicate amber.”

A corner of Bash’s mouth lifts in amusement. “No, I didn’t know that.”

I’ve always loved science, and Bash knows that. But I can’t have him thinking I just randomly spit out science factoids.

“Your cologne has notes of amber in it,” I explain. “That’s what made me think of that.”

“Amber, huh?”

I nod since talking isn’t going so well for me right now. Guilt stabs me in the gut because I’m only supposed to get butterflies for Shane, my fiancé.

A glance around the driveway of Bash’s house brings me back to reality. This is where I humiliated myself seven years ago. My adrenal medulla hits the brakes on the flow of epinephrine into my system. Finally.

“I better get my stuff inside.”

“I’ll bring your stuff in. Go grab a drink and sit down.”

That—that right there —is what makes it so hard for me to kill those butterflies Bash gives me. He’s a gentleman. Always holding doors and bringing me drinks. Even on that horrible day seven years ago, he did everything he could to try to make me feel better.

Not that any of it worked. I can still remember every giant landscaping boulder in his yard I wanted to crawl under that day and never return from.

“I’ve got it,” I assure him. “Some of this stuff is staying in the car because it’s going to the lab.”

I blow a stray strand of hair out of my face.

“Why didn’t Shane pack your car?”

A wall of defensiveness pops up inside me. Bash is always full of questions about Shane, and every one of them insinuates that he’s lacking.

“He was busy.”

“Busy with what?”

A video game tournament, but I’m not going to mention that. I just cut Bash a glare.

“I’m not a woman who needs a big, strong man taking care of me so I don’t break a sweat.”

A small snort escapes him. “Good thing, since Shane’s about a buck sixty.”

“Bash.” I fold my arms and push out a hip. “Can you not start your shit before I’m even inside the house?”

He puts his palms up. “Fine. Tell me what to carry in and I’ll do it.”

“Start with the mouthy hockey player. Set his ass down on the couch and leave him there for the rest of the day.”

I open the passenger-side back seat door of my car and reach for the tall, rectangular black suitcase my dad loaned me. Bash’s longer arm shoots past mine, his hand wrapping around the handle.

“I’ve got it, Lane. There’s Malibu and pineapple juice in the kitchen. Go make yourself a drink.”

I hesitate. Am I pissed that he’s trying to coddle me or touched that he made sure to have the ingredients of my favorite drink on hand?

I don’t even know. An argument with Shane before I left has me off balance. He was busy with friends last night, which was fine, but he wanted me to come by his place before I left, and he told me to plan on staying for at least half an hour.

It was because he wanted sex. I felt like an afterthought, so I told him I didn’t have time. He didn’t take it well.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink in the afternoon,” I tell Bash. “And I have to be sharp tomorrow.”

He pulls out the suitcase that I struggled to lift into the car, easily holding it in one hand.

“What else?”

“My other stuff is in the trunk; let me open it.”

I pop open my trunk and he surveys the boxes and three fully stuffed bags.

“The boxes stay in the car. The ones in the back seat stay, too. Everything else I’m bringing in.”

I reach for a bag.

“Stop. I’m carrying your shit in.”

The stern note in his voice stops me. I’m sweating on this ninety-degree afternoon because the air conditioning in my car is broken. This isn’t a hill I need to die on.

“Okay, thanks.”

I open the front door for him and walk into the kitchen with Bruce while he carries my things to an upstairs bedroom.

Even though I’ve been here a few times with Eric, I’m still awestruck by Bash’s house. We grew up in a very middle-class neighborhood in Columbus. There were houses with weed-filled cracks in driveways and window air conditioning units humming along in the summer. Tractor tires doubled as planters.

Bash’s house is the nicest I’ve ever been in.

Someone back home said he paid two million dollars for it.

It’s huge, with dark hardwood floors and tons of windows.

The biggest room on the main level, which I’d call a living room, is an open two stories, with automatic blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows, lots of comfortable leather furniture and framed black-and-white photos on the walls.

The room is open to the kitchen, which is bright and modern. It has white cabinets and white marble counters, six stools lined up at a massive island. The stainless appliances look like they belong in the kitchen of a gourmet restaurant.

The counters are mostly empty. There’s a glass jar beside the stove filled with treats for Bruce, and a crock with utensils on the other side of the stove, and that’s about it.

I can’t wait to try out his Wolf oven. The only thing I cook or bake is sourdough bread, and I’m slightly obsessed with it. I take my starter out of the oversized bag that comes everywhere with me and set it on the back of an empty span of kitchen counter.

“What’s that?”

I turn as Bash walks into the room. “That’s Dough Goldberg.”

He arches a brow.

“My sourdough starter. I’m going to make so many things in that oven. Bread, pizza crust, muffins—I even have a recipe for granola.”

Leaning back on the island, Bash crosses his arms. “You’re going to love Harry.”

“Who’s that?”

“One of Suki’s best friends. She’s my teammate Carter’s wife. I spend a lot of time at their house. My trainer has me on a high-protein, low-carb diet. I have a chef who comes here to make me stuff.”

I lower my brows. “So you won’t eat my sourdough?”

“I’ll have some. But I have to watch my sugar.”

“I’ll make you some bread. And granola. Sourdough is really good for your gut health. You need microbe diversity and you can’t get that from just protein and vegetables. Tell your trainer I said that.”

He grins. “You’re selling it so well. Now I’m craving a microbe sandwich.”

I know he’s joking, but I take science very seriously. “Did you know that ninety percent of serotonin is made in your gut? You know what serotonin is, right?”

“Yes, Lainey. I know what serotonin is.”

“And serotonin levels can contribute to depression and anxiety. Bread can literally make people happier.”

He walks over to the fridge. “I believe it. I’m a grouchy fucker when I’m not getting any.”

He means carbs, Lainey. Not getting any carbs. Stop thinking about Bash naked. Seriously—stop.

I clear my throat, willing away the warmth on my cheeks. “Thanks for letting me stay here. It’s saving me a ton of money. I want to pay you something, though.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But--”

“No.” He takes a long pull from the stainless water bottle he just took out of the fridge. “Make yourself at home because this is your home as long as you want to be here. Just credit me with your success in your Nobel acceptance speech.”

I laugh at the thought. Bash’s smile fades away.

“Seriously, though. I think what you do is badass. Using your work to help people.”

“That’s the goal.”

“I’m proud of you.”

The warmth in my cheeks intensifies. Damn my fair skin. It’s like a neon billboard of my emotions. And the admiration in Bash’s tone and gaze is making me warm all over.

It’s what I dreamed of every day for years. I wanted to be special to him. He admires my work, though. Not me, Lainey, the woman.

And that’s okay. I moved on a long time ago. Bash is my friend now, and he’s a dear one. I have Shane.

“Thanks,” I manage.

“You want a drink?”

“No, I had a Dr Pepper on the way here.”

He groans. “You’re still drinking that shit?”

“Daily. Dr Pepper is my general practitioner. He’s an absolute boss, but the pelvic exams get a little invasive.”

With a grin, he says, “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

He leads the way up the open, curved stairway with an intricately carved walnut railing. The walls upstairs are bare, but the space is still light and airy.

I’ve only been up here when I was staying the night with Eric after watching one of Bash’s games. We did that twice during his first season playing for Cleveland. After that, I started dating Shane, and he didn’t want me coming to Bash’s games.

“You’re in here.”

He walks into the first door on the right.

I stayed in this room the other times we came here.

It has the same dark wood floors as the main level, with three windows and a king-size bed that belongs in a luxury hotel.

There are burgundy pillows lined up neatly and the white comforter is perfectly smooth, without a single wrinkle.

My bags are already inside the walk-in closet.

This room has its own bathroom, and I peek into the doorway, making sure the gorgeous bathtub is still there.

“I’ve always wanted to take a bath in that tub.”

I never had time for it the two times I stayed here. We got to Bash’s house really late after his games, usually after midnight, and we were up early the next morning for breakfast.

“Go for it. I’m making roasted chicken and veggies for dinner tonight. Figured we’d stay in.”

Here comes the dopamine rush. I’m over my crush on Bash—really—but him cooking dinner and talking about us having a night in is doing things to me.

Unexpected things.

“That sounds great,” I say. “I need to call Shane and I think I’ll unpack.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

He leaves the room, pulling the door closed softly behind him.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and look at my ring. My engagement ring. I’m marrying Shane in five months, and I’m happy about it.

I am. Standing up, I go over to the closet to unpack, typing out a quick text to let my fiancé know I made it. I told Bash I was going to call him just so I could escape from the unexpected rush I was getting over him.

Shane wouldn’t pick up right now because of his video game tournament. And I’m still mad at him, anyway. I definitely won’t be telling Bash that, though. He doesn’t need any more reasons to dislike Shane.