Page 8 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

I put my mug down and cross my arms over my chest.

“There is nothing wrong with a good face care routine,” I state, making him laugh. “You’ll be eating your words when you turn up for a visit one day and discover you look older than me.”

“Pfft, hardly. I get weekly facials and infrared treatment.”

“Of course you do,” I mutter.

The arrival of our breakfasts puts an end to our bickering.

While Garrett dives straight in, stuffing his face with waffles and bacon, I sit back with a smile.

“What?” he asks when he notices me watching him. “Have I splashed maple syrup on my forehead or something?”

I shake my head. “I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

His eyes go all sappy. “Aw, Sisi. You going soft on me?”

I roll my eyes. “Careful, or I’ll be sending you back to Boston early.”

“As if.”

We continue chatting about our lives as we eat our breakfast. And by the time Garrett has finished his, he no longer looks like he’s only seconds away from vomiting on the table.

“Amazing what coffee and bacon can do, isn’t it?” he says when I point it out.

“So you’re good to spend the rest of the day unpacking, then?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Uh…haven’t you finished that already?”

I almost have, but I don’t tell him that. The truth is, I’ve got a surprise—or a few, actually—planned for us.

“You came here to help me, remember? I vividly recall you saying, and I quote, ‘whatever you need, Sisi, I’m your man. You tell me what to do, and I’ll make it happen.’”

“You shouldn’t listen to me when I’m drunk,” he deadpans.

“It was seven-thirty in the morning.”

“Did you not see the state of me earlier?”

“On a work day,” I point out. My little brother might like to party on occasion, but he takes nothing more seriously than his work. Well, maybe hockey. “I’ll be in New York this year when the Vipers have a matchup.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his face lighting up as we head out into the fall sun.

“Yep. You got space in that apartment of yours for me?”

“You know it. It isn’t the same watching hockey without you. None of my friends are as offensive during a game as you.”

“Then they don’t care enough. I can’t help my passion just oozing out of me.”

He chuckles as we reach my car.

“Passion, right.”

“Do you want a ride or not?”

He opens my trunk and throws his duffel inside before climbing into my passenger seat.

“I can’t wait to do some more unpacking,” I lie as I put the car into drive and pull out of the space.