Page 132 of My Lucky Charm

I glance at Scarlett, whose brows are raised, so I know I’m not delusional in thinking it’s strange for him to call for me.

“I hope you’re not in trouble,” she whispers.

I wave her off, but as I start down the hall, I find myself hoping for the same thing. What if I crossed a line last night? What if sharing even a hint of his feelings made him too uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want me working for him anymore? Or he finally realized that all my mistakes warrant letting me go?

I stop at the door of Gray’s bedroom, where a small rolling suitcase and another bag are parked. The smell of his aftershave lingers in the air, and I draw in a slow, inconspicuous breath, hoping he can’t tell I’m inhaling his scent.

“Yes?”

He’s standing in front of a full length mirror, fixing his tie, and I pray he’s not going to ask me to perfect the knot. Not only because I don’t know how to tie a tie but also because I don’t think I can be that close to him right now.

He catches my eyes in the reflection. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that you can sleep in here tonight.”

“Oh, the couch is fine,” I say.

“The bedding is clean,” he says, ignoring me. “And the TV’s in here.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Sleep in here.”

I mock salute, and when he raises a brow, I realize that was a misguided response.

“I’m not . . .” he stops. He shakes his head once, looking frustrated with himself. He takes a breath and says, softer, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he says.

I crack a smile. “You actually are.”

He draws in a breath. “You’re doing me a huge favor. This is really important to me. I don’t want you sleeping on the couch.”

“Okay,” I say, even though I have no intention of falling asleep in his bed again. There’s no way I’d get any sleep knowing he sleeps in here, in the same sheets, bare-chested, bare-everyth—

“And . . . hey.”

I look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

Now it’s my eyebrows that are raised.

He moves toward the dresser. “There were a couple of times yesterday when I was . . .” He seems to be searching for the right word.

“Rude?”

He takes a breath and holds it. Then, after letting it out, he starts, “I didn’t mean to be—”

“Cranky?”

He shoots me a look, and I snap my mouth shut.

“Look, I don’t like talking about—”

“Your feelings?”

“Eloise,” he says, and I can hear exasperation in his voice. “Let me say this.”

“Sorry.” What am I doing? He’s actually trying to talk to me, and I’m filling in the blanks like this is a Mad Lib.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t like to talk about my feelings. Or my dad.” He looks at me. “And the things you said about me being more than a hockey player—”

“Was it out of line?” I ask. “Because I have a bad habit of sticking my nose in other people’s business.”

“That’s true. You do.” He shakes his head. “But no, it wasn’t. It was nice of you to say it, even if I’m not sure it’s true.”

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