Page 41 of Pucked Up Plans
The lasagna in my other hand, Tate leads us inside, reminding me with a finger to her mouth about keeping quiet. Inside, I remove my shoes as she shuts the door. Through the living room and into the kitchen we go, still hand in hand.
I don’t want to admit the things her touch does to me. How with such a simple gesture, I’m more enthralled with her.
Our hands disengage only after she places the flowers on the table and reaches for the lasagna.
“Does it need to be reheated?”
“Mom baked it halfway. It still needs about twenty minutes.” I only sound confident about the time because my mother drilled it in my head. “Twenty minutes at three hundred-fifty degrees.”
“Cool. Let me get it in the oven. Help yourself to anything to drink in the fridge.” She fiddles with some buttons to preheat the oven before peering lovingly at the blossoms again. “What kind are these?”
I knew she was going to ask. Despite as many times as the florist mentioned the different types, my brain refused to remember. Stalling, I point to ones I can identify. “These are sunflowers.”
“You don’t say,” she deadpans. “How about these?” Her fingers point to the red ones.
“Flowers?”
A hand to her mouth stifles her giggle. “It’s the thought that counts, and these were very thoughtful, Walsh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I murmur.
“I just realized I don’t even have a vase. Good thing one’s included.”
Damn vase cost me twenty-five bucks extra. Money well spent.
“Now you’ll have one when these die.”
“I’ll let you know when that day comes. I’ll probably be so accustomed to looking at them, I’ll need more.” Her cheeks redden with her implication.
“Noted.”
I don’t elaborate but make a mental note to remember to get back to the florist when I think they may be dead. How long do flowers usually last? That’s a question for Millie. She’ll have the answer.
Tate places the vase in the middle of the kitchen table, gesturing I should sit. “How was your day?”
“Exhausting. Lennon woke me up around five when she crawled into my bed. She ends up there at least once a week, but I wish she would just get into bed and go back to sleep. Usually, she has to make sure we have a brief conversation before she finally gets the hint and dozes back off.”
I’m not used to talking about Lennon with any woman I’m interested in. I don’t hide the fact I have a daughter, but most girls aren’t looking to talk about my kid. They’re way more interested in what I can offer them. And hockey. Then there are the puck chasers who pretend to like hockey so they have an in with the players. My experience with these types is limited as I have little free time outside of hockey and being a dad, but a few have wormed their way in.
With Tate, we connect on a deeper level because of our mutual experiences of being parents.Teenparents.
Tate nods her head, fully invested in the story I’ve lost track of with one glance in her direction. What was I rambling on about?
Oh, right. My day.
“And then it just went downhill from there. Class was boring. Practice was invigorating yet draining at the same time. How about yours?”
I can’t ignore the slight pink tinge creeping on her cheeks. “Fine.”
There’s more to it than “fine,” but I don’t inquire further. For now.
“What time does Aubrey go to sleep?” The question has little to do with what we’re talking about, but once it’s out there, I’m interested to see it through.
“Seven-ish is the time we start to unwind for the day. Bath and books or neither if she’s exhausted. As methodical as she is, bedtime’s never been a time when she craves structure. As long as she’s asleep by eight, I’m okay with it. Gives me a couple of hours to myself before I hit the hay.”
I want to know when that is, but I don’t ask.
“What about Lennon?”
