Page 85 of Timelessly Ours

My phone dings with a text and I flip it over next to me on the porch swing.

Royce: You smelled amazing this morning.

Me: I smelled like you—forgot to bring my own body wash when I used your shower while you were down in the gym.

Royce: I liked it.

Me: I should hope so. You use that bar of soap daily.

Royce: There’s a game tonight. I want you to come. Bring Rory.

Me: Are you sure?

Royce: Yes. It’s illegal to leave a child home alone.

Me: You’re hilarious.

Royce: I’m being forced to attend the after party in the executive suite.

Gah, the executive suite. I used to love going to those—before I started working at Bridges five nights a week, that is.

The suite is typically reserved for owners and their VIP guests so if you’re lucky enough to get an invite—you take it.

But I can’t tell if he’s inviting me. So I dig a little.

Me: Game sounds like fun. We’ll see you when you get home.

Royce: You’re coming to the after-party.

A second later, he sends a quick follow up.

Royce: If you’re comfortable with it, of course. Don’t worry about Rory. There’s childcare at these events.

I am definitely up for a social gathering with some of my close friends—and basically, anywhere he will be.

Me: I’ll see if Rory’s up for it.

He and I both know she will be. But it seems like an appropriate response. Plus, I don’t want to appear too eager.

I am giddy with excitement. I actually squeal. I don’t think I’ve ever squealed. I’ve done it for Cora’s and Angel’s benefit of course, but never in private.

Unable to sit still, I run upstairs and prep Rory’s outfit first—I already have one in mind.

Pushing through hangers, I pull out a hot pink dress. It’s a plain t-shirt cotton bodice with a pink tule skirt. Paired with her new leather jacket, it will be out of this world.

Since I’m staying for the afterparty, I ask Angel to give us a ride, hoping we can catch one back with a certain head coach.

As I say his title in my head, I wince.

While we wait for Angel to round the corner to the house, I send a silent prayer that tonight goes well for the Blades.

We need this win. He needs this win.

“Look at you.” Angel beams at her little sister when I slide her into the back seat.

Rory doesn’t flaunt her outfit or the yellow hairpiece I weaved into her curls. Instead, she looks appreciatively at me, calling attention to the fact that I look very much like she does. No, I’m not sporting a pink tule—although that would be awesome so perhaps another time—but I am in black jeans, a hot pink blouse, and my leather jacket. My long hair is down and over my shoulders, my typical look for nights I go out—minus the pink, that was for Rory’s sake.

I did apply a teeny-weeny amount of pink eyeshadow on my girl because she saw me putting on my black one and wanted in on the fun.

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