Page 29 of Puck Love

The raging fireilluminates theden like a beacon from a lighthouse against a black sky. I turn my head and find NHL star hockey player Van Ross curled up on the couch beside me, his face slackened with sleep, drool pooling in the hollow of his shoulder, and for the first time since I arrived I wish I had my phone because it would make the sweetest screensaver. I find his on the coffee table and move as carefully and as quietly as I can so as not to wake him. I pull up the camera, but the tiny picture taken last in the left-hand corner of the screen draws my attention, and I flick it to bring it up. It’s me, sleeping on the couch. A myriad of emotions slams into me. First, outrage, because I wonder why he took it, and whom he planned on sending it to, but then the longer I look, the more I realize no one would know it was me. There isn’t a pound of makeup slathered on my face, my hair is mussed and coming loose from the bun on top of my head, and even with all of that, it’s a good shot. Taken at just the right angle so that the diffused light from the window only hits one side of my face. I look small and fragile, and evenbeautiful.

Rage rushes out of me, making room for something I haven’t felt in a long time. Self-acceptance, and maybe even a little bit of gratitude. My finger hovers over the delete button, but I retract it, swipe left, and snap a picture of Van. Though I don’t know what to do with it. It’s not like I can send it to myself because Lana monitors my email, so the second this image came through, she’d know exactly where I was, and she’d be banging down Van’s front door within hours. I can’t send it anywhere, unless I totally want to break his trust and release it to the internet so I can download it to my phone later, but I don’t like the feeling that stirs within me. I don’t like the idea of deleting it either. Maybe Van will once he finds it in there, but I hopenot.

I set the phone down on the coffee table and stare at the firelight glinting off the metal clasps of a large black object in front of me. I don’t know how I didn’t see it a second ago, but I scramble off the couch toward it, flip the latches, and open the case. I let out a loud exhale and run my hands over the shiny white surface. The sound hole and fret markers are inlaid with mother of pearl and there’s a stunning little bluebird on the pick guard, but the truly remarkable thing is it has Loretta Lynn’ssignature.

I run my fingers over the swirling script, the perfectly crafted little bird, and a lump forms in my throat.Oh my god.I’m holding Loretta Lynn’s guitar. I know Van’s sleeping, and I shouldn’t wake him, but I gently glide my fingers over the strings and listen as the rich full-bodied sound fills the room. I dare a glance at Van, and his eyes are onme.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just . . .” I exhale noisily. “She’s sopretty.”

He chuckles and closes his eyes. “Damn, country, if I’d known you’d get this excited, I would have bought you a guitar the morning I metyou.”

“It’s forme?”

“Well, it’s sure as shit not for me. I’m tonedeaf.”

“You bought me aguitar?”

“Yep.”

“Loretta Lynn’s guitar?” I beam at him, and then I shake my head. “I can’t take this. It’s toomuch.”

“Yes, you can.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how long you plan on staying, but I figured you should have something to do while you’rehere.”

My heart sinks because of his generosity, because of my selfishness, and because he bought me a really expensive, likely custom-made guitar belonging to my idol, and he barely knows me. And on top of that, I’m also mooching off the poor guy. I’m living in his house and have made no attempt to leave.Oh my god. I’m freaking Goldilocks right now. She was a self-centered bitch. I mean, who breaks into someone’s house, eats all their food, sleeps in their bed, and destroys their furniture without so much as an apology? “I’mGoldilocks.”

Van chuckles. “What?”

“I’m worse than Goldilocks,” I say, ignoring his confused expression. “I ate all of your tiny marshmallows. I have to leave. Right now. I’ll go somewhere else, and you can get backto—”

“Stella,” he says softly. He makes my name sound like a promise. I wonder if he knows how lyrical his voice is. “Where the hell are you gonna go? You know as well as I do the second you make that call, you’re right back to where youstarted.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t be here. I’mimposing.”

“Babe, if I wanted you gone, you’d be gone already. I like having youhere.”

“Youdo?”

“Yeah. It makes nights like this lesslonely.”

“Where isEmmett?”

“He has work in the city on Thursdays, and Fridays are divided between the morning shift and outings with his social group, so he stays at our mom’splace.”

“Oh. So, we’re all alone.” Like an idiot, I nod and point out theobvious.

“Is that notokay?”

“No,” I say too quickly. My voice is all high-pitched and weird, and I just hope he doesn’t notice. “Of course, it’sfine.”

“You trust me,right?”

“Absolutely.”

“You know, you might sound more convincing if you weren’t talking like MinnieMouse.”

I stroke the guitar before me. “You make me nervous, Van. That’s not a feeling I’m usedto.”

“Right back at you,country.”

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