Page 55 of One Good Puck
“I want to kiss him, but there’s no way that can ever happen,” I say. “We live together. What if things are awkward after we kiss? What if it’s so awkward that we can’t be in the same room, and I have to move out?”
Dread swoops through me. Things are already so weird, and we didn’t even kiss.
“I don’t want to jeopardize my living situation because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check,” I say. “Emma loves living there. And I’ve been able to save a lot of money this past month, not having to pay rent.”
“Hey,” Sophie says as she gently pats my arm. “Just talk to him. Clear the air. My dad’s direct and no-nonsense, buthe’s also a reasonable guy. He’ll appreciate it if you’re honest and straight with him, I promise.”
I nod. “You’re right. Thanks, Sophie. I just need to talk to him,” I say, repeating her advice. “And maybe not drink three glasses of wine in an hour again.”
They all chuckle. Ingrid pats my shoulder. “We’ve all been there.”
I look at all of them. “Thanks for letting me vent about this. And not thinking I’m a terrible person for almost kissing Gavin.”
“You’re not terrible, Abby,” Dakota says.
“Not even close,” Ingrid says.
“If you knew all the stupid things we’ve all done after a little too much alcohol, your head would explode,” Maya says. “What you did was very, very mild.”
They all burst out laughing. I chuckle. “Thanks, you guys. I know we haven’t known each other long, but you’ve always been so kind and welcoming to me.”
“You’re our friend, Abby,” Ingrid says with a bright smile. “We’re here for you.”
Bella pulls me in a hug. So does Maya.
Despite the nerves I have at the thought of having a very awkward conversation with Gavin, comfort wooshes through me. These ladies are amazing.
We’re visiting and snacking on appetizers when I look up and see Gavin walk into the party.
Chapter 22
Abby
Igo still, taken aback by just how handsome Gavin looks.
He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit, no tie. His hair is combed neatly, and that sheet of golden-gray scruff on his jaw has been trimmed short. He looks like a male model who just strutted off the runway.
He looks around and catches eyes with me. I hold my breath, wondering if he’ll awkwardly look away. But he just flashes that easy, confident, half-smile I love so much.
I manage a small smile in return and walk over to him, my nerves crackling inside of me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Champagne?” I offer him the glass I grabbed off the table a minute ago, but haven’t sipped from.
His half-smile turns full. “Thanks.” He takes a sip. “You’re not having any?”
I shake my head. “I’m limiting myself to one drink. Especially after how tipsy I got the other night.”
A light pink flush makes its way up his stubbled cheeks. He chuckles softly.
“Can we maybe talk about what happened?” I ask.
“Sure.” He holds eye contact with me, like he’s totally unfazed. I shouldn’t be all that surprised. His job is to navigate high-stress, fast-paced hockey games for a living. He’s probably not going to be rattled by one awkward conversation.
“So, um, we almost kissed.”
