Page 11 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
“Are you going to carry me every time I stand up?” I ask his retreating back.
“If necessary.”
Then he disappears outside before I can respond.
Silence settles over the cabin.
I glance around slowly, taking everything in now that my brain isn’t focused on the six-foot-two goalie carrying mearound like I’m starring in some kind of deranged Hallmark movie.
The kitchen stretches across the other side of the open floor plan with dark cabinets, matte-black fixtures, and pendant lights hanging above a massive island. Everything is spotless. Not a single dish in the sink.
A hallway disappears farther back, soft light spilling across the floor from somewhere out of sight.
My gaze drifts to the wooden staircase leading to a loft overlooking the living room below. A dark railing. More exposed wood. A glimpse of charcoal bedding upstairs.
It hits me suddenly that this isn’t just some vacation cabin.
This is his home.
Daltyn lives here. Alone.
The cabin is beautiful, but there’s something lonely about it, too. Like no one’s truly lived here in a long time. Only existed.
Maybe that’s why my chest aches a little when I look around. Because I know exactly what it feels like to survive instead of live.
Maybe it’s because I’m curled beneath his blanket while sunlight spills through the windows around me. Or maybe it’s the way the entire cabin smells like him.
But somehow, after everything that’s happened lately, this feels safer than anywhere I’ve been in a very long time.
And that realization terrifies me almost as much as it comforts me.
From rags to riches with a broody goalie.
Temporarily, of course.
4
DALTYN
Any enjoyment I get from Peyton’s shocked expression at where I live is overshadowed by her swollen ankle, which seems even puffier, despite her having it propped up during the drive home.
Home.
That word suddenly seems odd now that Peyton’s here.
Pine, oak, and cedar wrap around me as I step outside, back into the calming quiet of nature. Back to the place where I’m most comfortable.
It’s been a long time.
My boots crunch over gravel as I head to the back of my Escalade. I’d barely arrived home and settled in after the season ended when Connor, left wing for the Avalanche, contacted me about Ford Brooks’s wedding. Which was odd as hell because he wasn’t even dating anyone when the season ended.
In fact, he’d come off a break-up only to return to his grandmother’s house—affectionately nicknamed Gram—and bumped into his former girlfriend. What follows is a story so chaotic it barely sounds real, ending with the twocrazy kids getting married, then taking the wedding party to Vegas.
Vegas. The place where I met Peyton.
I yank open the trunk and pull out our luggage, trying to distract myself from the fact that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I’m out of my element here.
I glance toward the large window and see her shadowy figure on the couch. The stubborn-as-hell blonde refused to let me take her to urgent care.
