Page 19 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

EIGHTEEN

Dominic kept his promise to keep me around—I even got the first rose last week. This time, I got a basic one, like all the other girls. I haven’t received a Hellebore since the first week. I think I prefer the odd flower.

At least our walks have stayed consistent, continuing every day.

Our conversations run the gamut: light, weird, occasionally too honest. Earlier in the week, a string of random questions turned into a game of Two Truths and a Lie. I guessed Dominic’s on the first try, not that he made it hard.

“My mom let me have a pet raccoon, but when my dad found out, he called animal control. I’ve broken my nose twice. And I’ve never seen The Notebook,” he’d said.

Obviously, The Notebook was a lie. No way a guy who’s that much of a hopeful romantic—and who not-so-secretly reads romance novels—hasn’t seen it at least once. I’d bet money he’s watched it multiple times. Possibly cried.

Mine were: “I’m terrified of turtles, my middle name is Madonna, and my dream vacation is Hawaii.”

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” He’d chuckled. “Now I know why you really came.”

“I told you that from the start,” I’d insisted.

He’d guessed the turtle. I threw him with the middle name.

My dad once told me how my mom joked about naming me after her favorite pop star when she was pregnant. He vetoed it. But after we lost her, he changed his mind. And that’s how I ended up with a middle name that usually gets me raised eyebrows and follow-up questions.

It’s weird, but I like it.

Dominic laughed so hard he nearly tripped over driftwood. But when I told him the full story, he said he liked it, too.

A couple of days after that, we didn’t walk so much as collapse onto the sand and stare at the sky.

He claimed his body was too sore to move.

Apparently, his one-on-one with River involved trampolines.

He said it was more exhausting than sixty minutes of hockey. I didn’t argue, though I had my doubts.

The ocean was still dusky, but sunlight had started creeping over the hills, tinting everything in soft gold and pale pink, when I admitted that our daily walks aren’t quite enough anymore.

That familiar buzz is starting to crawl under my skin again. I’m not the only one going stir-crazy in that house, but I feel it more than most.

I’m eager to move again. One more week until we head to Chicago.

I didn’t think I’d be this ready to go home, but the change of scenery will be nice, and seeing my brother and Hannah will be good.

I’m not sure I’ll get to see my parents, though, since the plan is for all the women to meet Dominic’s family. Which, of course, includes Ryan.

Yesterday, he surprised me with coffee. I guess he finally got tired of me complaining about the mansion’s Keurig and its weak bean-water—it doesn’t even qualify as coffee.

He brewed it with some fancy espresso machine in his place, but one sip told me he should probably stick to taking shots on the ice. It was so bitter it made my eyes water. I managed a few sips before I “accidentally” tipped it over, the sludge melting into the sand.

Still, it’s the thought that counts.

I liked all of it. The walking. The talking. His attempt at caffeine.

Him .

And I’m not totally sure what to do with that.

He must’ve sensed I wasn’t exactly savoring his creation, because this morning he suggested we try a local coffee shop instead.

I’m a little taken aback that:

1. He cares enough about my caffeine addiction to go to this much effort.

2. He found and planned it without access to the internet.

He told me he used 411 (I didn’t even know that was still a thing) and got directions from the shop owner. It’s still hard to believe he managed it.

When we get there, the place is mostly empty, just a barista behind the counter who must’ve opened. She’s still setting up but calls out a cheerful “Good morning, early birds,” without turning around.

I waste precious minutes, according to Dominic, debating what to order before settling on an iced French toast latte. He gets a frozen hot chocolate, because apparently, he has no vices, caffeine included.

We slide into a corner booth, sitting catty-corner with a round table between us.

“So,” I say, glancing over at Dominic, “do you know who you’re sending home this week?”

He had a one-on-one yesterday with Ashley.

Not that I expected him to check in with me first—he doesn’t owe me that.

But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed I’m one of only two girls who haven’t had a solo date with him.

And now Ashley has been on two? The first, thanks to me messing with him, and the second, he says, was at the insistence of production. But still, maybe he does like her?

Not that it bothers me.

Or at least, it shouldn’t.

We’re not really dating. We’ve only just started to tolerate each other. Maybe even like each other, as friends.

Really, it’s less about the date and more about cabin fever. Our early morning walks help, but being out during actual daylight would be even better. Or at night. I’m not picky.

I tune back in as he’s rattling off names, giving a brief reason for each. “Do you agree?”

None of them are girls I’m especially close with, so I say, “Sure. Follow your heart and all that crap.”

He lets out a breath. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry. I’m just in a shit mood.”

He turns toward me, brow furrowed. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Like I told you the other day. Just feeling a little claustrophobic.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful, then picks up my crumpled straw wrapper and begins folding it, pulling the paper between his fingers.

When he looks up and meets my eyes, there’s concern in them. “What can I do to help?”

It catches me off guard. It’s not just another hollow offer or something said just to fill the silence. He means it.

And that makes guilt prick behind my sternum. I hadn’t meant to drag him into my bad mood.

I’ve always tried to keep this part of me tucked away. The parts that are too heavy. Too much. We’re taught to be easy, especially as women.

Smile through it. Swallow it down.

I usually push people away before they get close enough to feel burdened. Before they get the chance to walk away.

Letting someone else carry a piece of it feels more uncomfortable than carrying it all myself.

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

Dominic tears the straw wrapper into tiny pieces as his jaw ticks. He looks like he wants to argue but stays quiet, brooding.

Yep. I’ve officially ruined his mood, and I weirdly hate that I have.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him like this…

down. It’s always struck me as unnatural, maybe even a bit unfair, considering I’m someone who struggles almost daily.

At one point, I would have reveled in ruining his day, but now, it throws me off.

“Fine,” he grunts, and before I can stop him, Dominic grabs my drink. “Just a sip.”

Have I driven him to drink? Caffeine, but still, that can’t be a good sign.

When I don’t put up a fight like I did with the ice cream, he raises a brow. “Oh? Not worried about my germs anymore?”

I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of him kissing his date last night until now.

“Should I be? Did you kiss her?”

“Why?” he asks, watching me too closely. “Would that bother you?”

“No. Of course not,” I huff.

He exhales through his nose and leans back in the booth, fingers tapping against the table.

“She did,” he admits, barely audible over the whirl of a coffee grinder. “She kissed me.”

He looks down, tearing the straw wrapper into even smaller pieces. When he glances back up, his expression is unreadable.

And yeah, there’s that knot in my chest, pulled too tight and pulsing with every uneven beat. But I don’t let it show.

He’s supposed to kiss the people he’s dating.

It’s a good thing.

“That’s great ,” I say, aiming for breezy.

He pauses, his frozen hot chocolate hovering inches from his mouth. “Is it?” The challenge is clear in his eyes, even as his voice stays light.

“Yep.” I take a sip of my drink, not thinking about germs, only about keeping my hands busy.

He shakes his head. “I’m sending her home this week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” The words are hard to get out. “The girls are already talking about the kissing curse.”

His brow furrows. “Come again?”

“Apparently, when you kiss a girl?—”

“For the record, they’ve kissed me,” he cuts in. “Not the other way around.”

“Right, well, the theory is that it’s a kiss of death. If they kiss you, they get sent home. That’s why I figured you didn’t?—”

“She kissed me ,” he repeats, more insistent.

“Anyway,” I continue, “you might see a drop-off in smooches. So maybe don’t send her home. You know, to break the curse.”

He stares at me over his drink.

“Right,” he says at last, though his voice lacks conviction.

“Unless you’re okay with the women avoiding you like you have cooties…”

He shrugs and goes back to sipping his drink.

I stir the melting ice in my cup, eyes on the window, letting the question neither of us is ready to answer hang in the air.