Page 62 of Mr. Swoony

“Thanks.” I lower myself on the bench, positioning my hands on the bar.

“This season is shit, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.” Easton stands by my head, staring into the mirror at the other three guys’ reflections.

“Well, Pinkie was just telling us how hockey guys are a big thing in romance books,” Rowan says.

“Really?” Easton looks down at me. “What about baseball?”

I lift the bar off the handlebar. “Sorry. One lady told me it’s hockey and football first. She didn’t even mention baseball.”

He grunts. “That’s because we use our brains, and we don’t act like barbarians hitting one another into the boards and glass.”

We all laugh.

“Don’t be jealous because we’re tougher,” Tweetie says, flexing his muscles.

“We play America’s pastime,” Easton says.

“I’m not saying it’s fair, but you guys better start charging the mound and throwing some fists if you want to rank on the romance book boyfriend lists.” I put the bar back after doing my reps.

“I’ll get right on that. Then again, if we don’t start winning, it just might start getting ugly.” Easton nods toward the bar for me to do another round of reps.

For the rest of the afternoon, Easton fills us in on the Colts and how they won’t make the playoffs this year and how he can’t wait for the season to be over so he can go back to his small hometown in Alaska to regroup. We gripe about how long our seasons are, both baseball and hockey spanning a good part of the year.

The entire time, I calculate a timeline in my head of how long I’ll have to wait until Eloise might be ready to date, and I consider whether I can really start dating someone during hockey season. I’ve never done it, and I know it’ll be hard as hell to balance the two.

Then again, Rowan did it with Kyleigh. Maybe if you want something badly enough, it’s not that hard. First, I need her to put Tristan as far in her rearview mirror as possible.

Twenty-Five

Eloise

I walk into The Urban Acre and stop at the hostess. She’s a cute little redhead who appears frazzled as if it’s her first day on the job.

“I have a reservation under Corbin for two.”

“Oh, your party is already here, but he said it should’ve been under Somerset.” Her head tilts with an expression as if to say, “you’re so silly.”

I glance into the restaurant. Sure enough, Tristan is sitting at a table for two against the wall, his thumbs roaming over the screen of his phone.

“It’s Corbin, and I see my party. Thank you.”

I stalk across the room, reprimanding myself for taking out my aggression with Tristan on an innocent hostess.

“Tristan,” I say, my hand landing on the chair across from him.

He looks up, pockets his phone, and shifts his body to stand.

I raise my hand and pull out my own chair. “I have it.”

I’m sure it’s only habit for him to pull out my chair at this point. A Somerset is raised to always pull out the chairs of ladies, after all. I sit in my chair and keep my purse tucked into my lap.

“Oh, I forgot, you’re an independent woman now.” He rolls his eyes. His skin is a darker bronze, and his hair is painted with more highlights than before the ceremony.

“Let’s just have this conversation.” I sit up straighter. “I’m sor?—”

“Actually, I’d like to start.”

I inwardly growl. “Fine.” I hold my hand out over the table, motioning for him to take the floor.

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