Page 33 of Almost Ours
Her eyes flicked to mine. “I know, he’s so happy here,” she murmured. “It terrifies me.”
I frowned, unsure what she meant.
She shook her head. “Never mind. That was a weird thing to say.”
I leaned on my stick. “No, it’s not. It just…”
“Thanks for playing with him,” she said, clearly not wanting to finish this conversation. “And for earlier. I really appreciate it.” Her mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile.
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s no big deal. I’m happy to help.”
Her green eyes caught mine, and I felt that familiar pull again, the one that made my heart stumble, like gravity was tugging me closer to her. She fidgeted with the edge of her toque, her lips pressed together, jaw tight. Her arms were crossed at first, then she let one drop, her fingers curling around her opposite wrist. She rolled it gently, almost absentmindedly, the motion small but telling.
A strand of hair slipped from beneath her toque, falling across her cheek.
Without thinking, I reached toward her, my fingers moving to tuck it behind her ear.
She flinched.
It was subtle, but I felt it–the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her head jerked slightly, her eyes flashing wide like I’d startled her.
I froze, my hand hovering awkwardly in the space between us.
“Sorry,” I muttered, pulling back and letting it drop to my side.
Her gaze dropped to the ground, her jaw tightening further. “I should–” she started, her voice low and rough. “I should go check on Connor.”
Before I could say anything else, she stood and turned away. Her footsteps crunched over the snow as she walked back toward the house, head down, shoulders stiff.
And just like that, the air around me felt colder.
The pub was already half-fullwhen I pushed through the door, the familiar scent of fried food and spilled beer wrapping around me. A soft haze hung in the air lit by the warm glow of mismatched string lights draped haphazardly across the beams. The floors creaked underfoot, worn smooth from years of boots and barstools, and the wooden tables bore the scars of countless elbows, rings from forgotten coasters, and the occasional carved initial. The low hum of conversation mingled with the clink of pint glasses and the twang of old country tunes filtering from a dusty jukebox in the corner.
Shane was already at our usual table tucked in the back, nursing a pint and watching a Vancouver Mustangs game flickeracross the small wall-mounted screen above the bar. He barely glanced up as I approached, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he owned the place.
“Took you long enough,” he said as I slid into the booth across from him.
“Had to mentally prepare to deal with you,” I said. “Takes longer some days.”
Shane raised his pint. “And yet here you are, gracing me with your tortured presence. Must be my lucky night.” He raised a brow, “you free to talk strategy now? Or are you too busy fixing plumbing and winning over blondes in puffy coats?”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the beer he’d ordered for me. “It’s a sink, Shane.”
He smirked. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
I shook my head but didn’t argue.
The game flickered across the screen, the room humming with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The Mustangs were down by one, and the crowd inside the pub had started leaning in closer to their drinks, hoping the third period would bring something worth shouting about.
Shane took a sip of his beer and started to say something, but the sound of whistles blaring through the speakers made the whole bar groan.
“Ah, come on,” someone at the bar yelled. “What a cheap shot!”
A replay flashed across the screen–number sixty-eight from the opposing team leveled a guy with a dirty elbow to the jaw, dropping him like a sack of bricks. The name on the back of the jersey made my stomach twist.
Shane squinted up at the screen, then barked away. “No way. Is that Bennett? Of course it is, that fucking asshole.”
A chorus of boos echoed through the bar as the penalty was announced. A few guys near the pool table shouted insults at theTV, one even tossing a handful of peanuts in Bennett’s direction like the guy could feel it through the screen.
