Page 69 of Forecasting the Forward

A little, but I’m not telling her that. I’m trying to be patient. “If that’s what you need to give you some peace, then keep your apartment. But you’re sleeping in my bed.”

She laughs again, and the sound is the most beautiful melody. “Okay.”

“Wow.”Becca’s eyes are enormous as she looks around my apartment. I don’t have the biggest place on the team, but it’s more than enough space for me and the pigs. Even adding Becca and Thunder to the mix won’t be a problem. Hell, they could both have their own rooms — which absolutely will not happen, because I meant what I said about Becca sleeping with me — and we’d still have extra space.

“Woah,” she says, as she looks at a prominent wall featuring bookshelves and most of my cowboy hats. Once a Texan, always a Texan. “Do you wear those often?”

“Not as much anymore,” I admit. “It’s more that I like to collect them. Each hat has a memory attached to it. They all matter to me.”

Becca glances at me with a smile. “I like that. You’re sentimental. That’s cute.”

“I’m not cute,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest in mock anger. The move makes my muscles pop, and Becca’s eyes immediately drop. My lips twitch as I try to contain the responding grin. “Cowboy hats are manly. Sophisticated. They’re making a statement.”

“Okay, Mr. Cowboy,” she laughs. “Settle down. I like the hats.”

“Good.” I’d already planned to take the hats down. Now that Becca is here, I want a more stylish space that showcases both of us. A wall of cowboy hats ain’t it.

“This view is phenomenal!” she gushes, stepping up to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the northwest. “I can totally visualize drinking my morning coffee on your balcony. I bet watching sunsets is amazing, too.”

“They are pretty spectacular,” I answer simply. I want to correct her again. It’s not my balcony, it’sourbalcony.Ourapartment.Ourbedroom.

Patience, Jax.

“You want the dollar tour?” I ask, and she nods gleefully. I look warily at Thunder, who has parked himself outside the pigs’ door, his nose smashed against the slim opening. “He can’t open doors, can he?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him try,” Becca answers as Thunder scratches at the door. She looks at me with a laugh. “Probably best to put a lock on it, though. Just in case.”

“I can ask the building superintendent if they have doorknobs with locks. It never occurred to me until right now that none of my secondary bedrooms have doors that lock,” I muse.

I make a mental note to ask the building staff about a locking mechanism. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the handiest guy out there. I don’t know my way around cars, and my tool set was a gift from someone years ago. I’m not even sure I’ve opened it. My expertise is focused on a hockey rink, and a farm. I may not be able to fix a broken dishwasher, but I can hold down a calf that needs to get an ear tag. That has to count for something, right?

I show Becca the kitchen and spare bedrooms, then the small office I rarely use. Her eyes light up at the space, and she shyly asks if she can use it for creating long range weather forecasts. She explains that she does a quarterly video where she goes into detail about how each weather model works, as well as explaining different weather terms like the jet stream and ElNiño, which is a climate pattern when ocean temperatures are unusually warm around Christmas. She tells me that she makes dozens of visits to local elementary schools every year, helping kids learn some terminology, and not to be afraid of some of the scarier weather phenomena.

Becca’s eyes sparkle as she launches into a monologue about women in STEM fields, and how less than ten percent of chief meteorologists in the country are female. She’s determined to spotlight the field, and I love the fire and tenacity I can hear in her voice.

My girl is one smart cookie.

“I’ve sort of taken over this closet, but I’ll make room for your things. In all honesty, I didn’t expect to be coming home from a road trip with a wife, or I’d have had half the closet ready for you. I mean, I asked the gal who checks on my pigs to move some of my clothes, but she wasn’t available.” I’m somewhat chagrined as I tell Becca this, as if either of us could have predicted our whirlwind marriage.

“What?” Becca says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “I bet you ask women to marry you before every away game.”

“Only the chief meteorologists,” I quip, and Becca beams. “The en suite bathroom is through this door.”

Becca gasps when she sees an enormous soaking tub and steam shower in the large gray bathroom. “I’d have moved in here just for that tub.”

“Feeling the love here, Spitfire,” I remark dryly. She shoots me a glance and lightly slaps my arm.

“I haven’t had a soaking tub since I left home. Baths are my favorite kind of self-care. I could never justify the expense to get an apartment with one though.”

“This one is all yours. I use it occasionally, but only if my legs are really sore and tight.” The thought of sharing a bath with Becca, though, makes me rethink my stance on baths.

“I can’t wait to get some bath bombs, bubble bath, and Epsom salts!” she exclaims gleefully, clapping her hands together with a giant smile covering her face.

“Glad that makes you happy, baby,” I say quietly. Clearing my throat, I motion for her to walk out of the bathroom. “You ready to meet my girls?”

“Your girls?” she asks quizzically.

“Yup.”

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