Page 19 of That Thing You Brew
My unit was one of the bigger ones, with two smaller bedrooms and an office. Like I’d told Penny, I no longer had a roommate. I was in no hurry to get one, either. I liked having the place to myself, and I had plans to convert the second bedroom into a home gym that rivaled the Plex’s.
On a smaller scale, of course. I didn’t have three levels of windows facing the mountains. However, large bump-out windows in the dining nook and office provided a similar view.
I tucked the dish towel into the back pocket of my jeans and checked my reflection in the mirror over the table in the vestibule. Hair combed, check. Short beard trimmed, check. Fresh bandaging over the zips, check. Team logo polo fresh and unwrinkled, thanks to the dryer’s fluff cycle, check.
I wasn’t nervous at all.
It was totally normal and polite to look presentable for company.
I breathed in deeply and opened the door, letting my breath out slowly like I was benching heavyweights. Across the hall, the elevator light didn’t change from “2,” so I angled my body toward the stairs in anticipation.
I heard her before I saw her. Light footsteps and then she emerged. Her long wavy hair, usually piled on her head or braided, fell to her waist and was capped with a light purple pom-pom hat. A matching scarf was knotted around her neck and hung over a fitted ivory wool coat with oversize buttons that belted at the waist and stopped at her knees. Her denim-clad calves disappeared into fleece-trimmed camel-colored winter boots, and her black leather gloves clung to the strap of a dusty plum-colored tote bag slung over her left shoulder.
I knew a thing or two about fashion. I edited every one of my sister Daniella’s fashion merchandising papers last year.
Penny had style. And I liked it.
But it was her smile that I lingered on. Her lips were tinted the same dusty plum as her bag, not too dark but vibrant enough to stand out. I forced my gaze up, taking in her pink cheeks, reddened from the December cold, and her clear green eyes, shiny and hopeful.
Hopeful.If I couldn’t help her … If I failed … I couldn’t live with her disappointment. There simply was no failing at this task. I knew in my heart that I had what it took to inspire her to overcome her anxiety. I just had to find a way to bring out her confidence and teach her the techniques that had helped me to relax in stressful situations.
I was a shy kid with a speech impediment. I’d had speech lessons as a kid and media training for hockey. There had to besomethinguseful in my toolbox that could work for Penny.
She paused at the top of the stairs. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I echoed. I cleared my throat and quickly stuffed my hands into my pockets, not trusting they’d keep to themselves. “Uh … thanks for coming.”
My phone vibrated against the back of my hand, startling me. I backed up, tripping over my own feet. My hand shot out to grab onto the doorframe. I recovered quickly and made a show of leaning into it.
Women liked a good doorframe lean. Social media told me so.
She laughed. “You ok-kay?”
“Never better,” I assured her easily. I straightened and made a sweeping motion with my hand toward the open doorway. “After you, my lady.”
She giggled, dipping into a quick curtsy. “Thank you, milord.”
Note to self: Use more Renaissance references. Her reply was stammerless.
I followed her in and closed the door behind me. “Can I take your coat?”
Penny nodded and held up a finger, signaling for me to wait, and reached into her tote bag. “I b-brought—” She huffed a frustrated breath and pulled out a wine-size cooler bag.
I reached for it and pulled out a bottle of Tia Gia’s Lemonade. “This is perfect. I made grilled chicken alfredo.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed anObefore transforming into a wide smile. “M-my fave-rite.”
Yes!I was confident she liked it, since I’d seen her eating the dish one night with Tasha and their parents at Pasta Nacht’s, a restaurant in town near the arena. It was German-Italian fare and owned by retired Edge player Roman Kubek and his family. Their tafelspitz was just like Oma used to make. Roman’s wife, Gia,theTia Gia, was New York Italian and sold an entire line of kitchenware, pasta, sauces, and beverages.
Penny stuffed her hat, scarf, and gloves into her tote bag. She set it on the floor and untied her belt. As she slowly unbuttoned her coat, revealing a form-fitting knit black turtleneck, I gripped the bottle of lemonade tighter.
I took her coat and hung it on an empty hook on the other side of the entryway. Neither of us seemed to be able to speak, but the silence wasn’t awkward.
It was comfortable.
Easy. Natural.
Like we’d done this before.
