Page 245 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

If there was one thing falling in love with Alex in such a short time had taught me, it was this: sometimes the worst, most illogical, most impractical, most unbelievable bad decisions were the best decisions of all.

George’s expression was dubious as he squinted at the pair of figure skates I was currently holding. He eyed the toe pick—the almost star shaped grooves at the front—distrustfully. His nose scrunched.

“June only wore them once,” I promised, wiggling the black boots at him so he could familiarize himself with them. “And I sanitized them.”

I planned on buying him his own set, but those would need to be molded to his feet and we simply hadn’t had time for that. In the interim, these were better than rentals—far more support for him, and surprisingly a perfect fit, considering his size disparity with June.

“It’s not that—” George reached out, fingers closing around the toes so they’d stop swinging. “I just…the fronts look sharp. Are those the brakes?” His breaths were coming a little faster.

“Absolutely not.” I didn’t figure skate, but June did. And she’d made it clear over and over and over again—even though I already fucking knew—thatthe toe pick was for jumping, not stopping. “You won’t be using the toe pick today,” I promised. “I bet you won’t even notice it’s there.”

“Unless I stab myself in the leg with it,” George sighed. He took the boots from my hands and sat down on the bench inside the front end of the arena. Behind him, the ice rink was being resurfaced, the whir of the Zamboni filling the air. I could practically taste the ice—which was far preferable than the smell and musk that filled the locker room when I was back there getting ready for a game.

“You’re not going to stab yourself in the leg,” I promised, even though…now that he’d brought it up, I was kinda worried he would. “And even if you did—which you won’t—” I cut him off before he could stress, “I’d make sure you were fine. Trust me.”

George relaxed.

And fuck, wasn’t that a trip? That my reassurances were enough to make his loud mind quiet.

“Okay.” He put the boots on the ground, scrutinizing them like he’d never seen a pair of shoes in his life. “How am I supposed to?—”

I knelt on the floor. It wasn’t made of tile, but a softer substance. Something that wouldn’t damage the blades when you walked—aside from if you stepped on a wayward pebble or some shit. That’d never happened to me, but Roderick wasn’t nearly as lucky. He’d started wearing hard guards for that reason, always wary it was going to happen again.

“They’re a bit different than shoes,” I said, reaching for his foot. He didn’t protest as I cupped his ankle, gently sliding his foot free from his “casual loafers.” I never wore formal clothing outside of work. George was…his own specimen of man, that was for certain.

“How so?”

“They’re supposed to fit tighter, for one thing.” I fully intended on buying him his own pair but we hadn’t had time. Between apartment hunting, visiting with his family, returning to New York to pack things up—and then flyingback here to await the arrival of his possessions, both of us had been swamped.

We’d come so far in such a short amount of time.

Just thinking about our trip to New York brought a smile to my face.

Partially because George’s roommate had been a goddamn riot, and twice as hilarious as I’d hoped, for obvious reasons. Also, because his apartment had been simultaneously nothing like I’d anticipated, and exactly like I’d expected.

It was far more cluttered than one would think, though clean. You could see a divide between George’s “common areas” and Missy’s, as anywhere George often occupied was perfectly organized without a speck of dust in sight. I couldn’t say the same for Missy, and was surprised that George not only put up with her messiness, but seemed to enjoy her.

They quipped back and forth the entire time we’d been packing.

She poked fun at him in a way that reminded me of his siblings. Like she was his other, grayer older sister. Her hair was a mess of curls, and the first time I’d seen her I’d been shocked into silence because she was wearing yarn.

An entireoutfitmade of yarn.

Head to toe.

Even her earrings were made of yarn—tangled balls dangling from her ears in colorful blobs.

She’d been friendly, an air of peace about her as she swung the apartment door open with a flourish and welcomed George home.

“Your baby has missed you,” she said in greeting. “And Lord-Ass-Face has been here six times since you called me to delay your trip home.” Then she’d enveloped George in a hug so snug I heard his back pop. “Welcome home, Bubba.”

“Hi, Missy,” George greeted, patting her back.

“Bubba?” I echoed, delighted. “Bubba?”

“Because of his bubble butt,” Missy released George, her voice a dreamy sigh—that I quickly learned was her default setting, not just because George’s ass was a thing of legend.

I liked her immediately.

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