Page 5 of Sweet Boys Love Christmas
“Uh, yeah, I will be.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I’ll be around. We can hang out,” he says. “As friends.”
“You’re not going back home?”
He shakes his head. “I’m from here.”
“Oh.” I study him, processing the suggestion. “Yeah, we can hang out.”
“Cool.” He tries to play it off, but he can’t hide the twitch of his lips that tells me he’s pleased with my answer. He clears his throat, the tips of his ears turning slightly red. It’s endearing and surprising that this insanely good-looking man has this shyness about him. “I just want you to know that I respect that you’re not ready to date. I don’t want to push you into anything. I just… I do like spending time with you.”
Smiling back, I pat his hand. “I like spending time with you, too.”
A part of me wishes I wasn’t so hell-bent on being independent after being with Tommy for so long, especially when said independence consists of spending most of my free time alone in my dorm eating way too much popcorn and binging all my favorite shows. It’s clear that Luke genuinely likes me, and he’s a good guy. But I made a promise to myself, and I’ll continue to uphold it.
I polish off the last of my dessert, wipe my face, and drop my napkin onto my plate. “Thanks again. I guess I’ll see you around.”
With a nod, he opens his book back up. “I’m sure you will.” When I stand and turn to leave, he tacks on, “Bye, Bertie.”
The tenderness in his voice is soothing. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should take it all back—tell him I was wrong when I said I didn’t want something serious. But I shake my head, pick up my tray, and take off.
TWO
LUKE
Luke
“Hey, Mama.”I press a quick kiss to my mom’s cheek.
Her shoulders are stooped, and her face is drawn in exhaustion, but she’s still at the stove making dinner.
Even though I want to shower and crawl into bed after a brutal practice, I take the wooden spoon from her and shoo her over to a chair. “I’ll take over with this.”
“Thanks, Lukie.”
Grunting, I peer at her over my shoulder. My mom is the only person on the planet I’ll let get away with calling me that.
At the table, she pulls off her sneakers and rubs at the bottoms of her feet.
The sight of her after a long day at work always makes me second-guess not entering the NHL draft last summer. With the kind of money I’d be making, I could’ve easily retired her. But she was resolute in her argument that I finish my degree first. My agent wasn’t happy when I delayed another year, and he’s been on my ass more than ever since then, making sure I’m at the top of my game. In my eyes, another year of experience at thecollege level will only help me. But his argument is that teams are starting to veer toward younger players—ones they can mold into what they need, ones who don’t have the additional four years of habits to break.
I shove that worry aside quickly. Otherwise I’ll induce an anxiety attack.
I don’t care about being filthy rich, but I do care about taking care of my mom.
My dad left when I was a baby, and though he popped in and out sporadically over the years, my mom raised me all on her own. All I want now is to help her. The first thing I’ll do is pay off this house. Then I’ll take care of her bills so she can slow down and appreciate life.
When the Hamburger Helper—a staple in our household—is done, I pick up one plate she’s already set out and scoop a helping onto it. Fork in hand, I set her dinner in front of her. Then I head for the hall.
“Luke, you should eat,” she calls after me.
Without looking back, I wave a dismissive hand. “I want to shower.”
The instant I’m locked in the bathroom, I grip the counter and take several deep breaths. Ishouldeat. With the number of calories I burn, I need it. But after today’s encounter, my brain is muddled and spinning in circles. If I eat now, I’ll probably throw it up.
The last thing I should be thinking about is Bertie Carthwright, a girl a billion light-years out of my league for so many reasons, but especially because she’s practically old-money American royalty. Her family is most well-known for their Carthwright Chocolate Bar. But the company they’ve owned for generations has branched out far beyond the candy-making industry. I know because I googled it after I mether during freshman year. After reading article after article, I spiraled even worse than I am now.
I turn the shower on, and while the water heats, I yank my shirt off and drop it into the laundry basket.
