Page 84 of Oh, Puck!
"Okay, but seriously," Zoey says. "Now that we're all together, I've got something I need to tell you."
The shift in her voice lands like a dropped puck.
The laughter drains out of it. The kitchen goes quiet. Even Beck stops chewing.
She's not smiling anymore. Her eyes are red around the rims, and I realize too late that she's been crying.
"Zoey?" Mason sets down his spoon. "What is it?"
She takes a breath. Looks at the three of us through the screen.
"Um." Her voice wobbles. "I just got off the phone with Mom."
My stomach drops before she finishes.
"Something's wrong."
Chapter 13
Josie
Icruise along Beachside's coastal road in Declan's Range Rover, and can't help but feel like I've just stolen something.
This vehicle is basically a luxury spaceship. A spaceship thatsmellslike him. I keep catching myself grinning at red lights like a lunatic.
"Get it together, Whitfield," I mutter to the rearview mirror, where a woman with thoroughly kissed lips is grinning back at me. "You have a job to do today. A serious, important job."
Except the woman in the mirror does not look like she has a serious, important job to do. The woman in the mirror looks like she spent the entire night getting absolutely, comprehensivelywreckedby a professional athlete who told her she was changing his life while he was buried inside her.
Three times.
My thighs ache in the best possible way.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, shower off the very obviousI-just-had-sexsmell clinging to my skin, and yank on afresh team polo and jeans, the yoga class on the lawn below my balcony is already mid-downward-dog.
I lean against the railing, and snort a laugh.
Cute.They have no idea I perfected my own version of that pose last night. Repeatedly.Namaste, indeed.
The instructor's serene voice floats up through the open door, telling everyone torelease what no longer serves you.
For once, I actually do.
Because somewhere between Declan's mouth on my throat at 2 a.m. and his hand spread possessively over every inch of my skin, something shifted.
Maybe Declan's right.I twist my wet hair into a clip and look at myself in the mirror.Maybe Mom's the one missing out.
The thought lands soft and strange andenormous. For years I've worn her disappointment like a second skin, and now some grumpy hockey player has gone and snipped the thread in one night.
I exhale, releasing it.
Then I grab my bag and my keys and the version of myself that has a hockey team to save. Because the Bears are nowhere near safe, and one semi-decent night doesn't fix a franchise on life support.
I didn't move across the country to be the woman who rode a single buy-one-get-one ticket promo into the sunset.
There's work to do. Real work.
I can do this if I stay focused. Stay sharp.
