Page 24 of Never In My Wildest Dreams

He arranged the logs on top of the kindling, lit a match, and watched the cardboard light up. “I don’t know how long it’ll take to dig out a path to the shed, so if this starts to die down, just toss another log on, okay?”

“Okay. Sure.” She watched him as he headed into the kitchen to grab a shovel. “Can I help?”

“You know those grocery bags you were digging through? You can unload them.” He opened the kitchen door to find three to four feet of snow.At least it’s powdery. He was hungry, tired, and worn out from worrying about his career. If he were alone, he’d stuff his face with a roll or something. But he wasn’t. And he needed to get his roommate some heat and hot water.

So, he plunged the shovel into the snow and got to work.Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He liked using different muscles, liked letting his mind wander.

And guess where it went? Right to his career.

Sure, he liked George’s idea of going out on their own, but he learned a lot from Elite’s weekly meeting when everyone talked about their clients, contracts, and endorsements. Marcus sat quietly, listening as others offered advice, and they all hashed things out. Eventually, the boss would drop a nugget of wisdom—a work-around, a solution—something no one else would have considered because he’d been around for thirty-five years. And it was brilliant. Nothing Booker would’ve come up with on his own.

He and George—and the other two guys who’d already gone out on their own—had graduated law school together four years ago. Sure, Booker had some top-notch players on his roster, but he didn’t know the business inside and out the way Marcus did.

Okay, but you can’t work with him anymore. His boss didn’t throw tantrums. He didn’t make ultimatums. And the hill Booker had chosen to die on made him unfit for Elite.

That’s fine. He wasn’t like his boss. He couldn’t break bread with his clients, bring newborn diapers to their wives when they’d run out while their husbands were on road trips, bail them out of jail, and take their calls at three in the morning when they couldn’t sleep because of some trauma in their lives, and still see them as nothing but a commission.

They might not be friends, but he cared about their welfare.

While it was easy to say Ginty’s a grown man, and that he could deal with his family, that wasn’t the reality. The hockey star wanted a relationship with his parents and siblings. He held out hope they’d eventually love him for himself and not his money or connections. He needed an outsider’s perspective.

Bottom line, Ginty relied on Booker for more than contracts. He needed one person in the world who didn’t use him.

No, he couldn’t stay at Elite, but would it be any different at the LA agency? He doubted it.

By the time he reached the shed and turned on the generator, his muscles ached, and his stomach howled. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he found himself eager to get back to the Hellcat.

He found her singing quietly in front of the fire. Her eyes were closed, and she had a bag of breadsticks on her lap. In that moment, her features clear of tension and makeup, she looked perfectly content. And, well, blissful.

With her smooth, porcelain skin, an expressive mouth, and high cheekbones, she was a natural beauty. It was only when he keyed into the lyrics that he heard her pain. Okay, so clearly, music was a form of therapy for her.

She was really something. After going through trauma, she wasn’t self-medicating with substances or people. She was processing.

She’d said the people closest to her had betrayed her—not someone. So, what had happened to her? Who did this?

Who do I need to hurt?

“All set.” He started toward her.

His voice jerked her out of her peaceful repose. “Oh, yay. Can I take a shower?”

She really had no clue how things worked. “The place should warm up in half an hour, but it’ll take longer for the water to get hot.” He untied his boots and set them by the fire to dry.

“That makes sense. Well, thank you for doing it.”

“Of course.” He thought about the cost to her of letting him into her bed. It must’ve scared the shit out of her, but she’d done it anyway. She didn’t have to do that. Well, actually, she did. He’d have gotten hypothermia and frostbite. Still. He appreciated that she’d done it of her own accord.

He opened the refrigerator to get the eggs and found she’d neatly organized the shelves. “I’m making scrambled eggs. Unless you want something else.”

“No, no. That sounds great.” She sprang up. “What can I do to help?”

“You can grate the cheese.”

“Sure.” She came into the kitchen like she was ready to pitch in for an emergency, but once she opened the refrigerator, she just stared into it. “Wait, what do you mean? Isn’t it already grated?”

Since she was the one who’d unloaded the groceries, she should know he didn’t have any. “Pre-grated cheese has preservatives, so it doesn’t melt as well.”

“Okay, Chef. I didn’t know that.” She pulled out three wedges. “Which one?”

---