Page 10 of He Has MVP (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“A hurricane?” Pink’s voice turns all soprano and hovers close to dog whistle. My arms go around her. She’s stiff, but I hold her steady. Fuck. My caveman protector instincts are back in spades.
“It’s okay, babe. We can handle it. It’s only wind and rain for a night.”
“Oh no.” Nellie shakes her head, frowning. “It’s a big one, covers a lot of ground. It won’t get past us for thirty-six to seventy-two hours. Depending.” She looks between us while my brain recalculates. My mind slips deep into reptile survival mode and fight-or-flight decision-making. Looking over the checkout display, I reach out and grab a handful of batteries, making sure I get at least one package of each size.
“We’ll take these.” I drop the batteries onto the conveyer belt and Nellie gives me a nod of approval.
“Are you kidding?” Pink says. “A few batteries? That’s your idea of a solution?” She takes out her phone and powers it up.
“I thought your battery was dead?”
“I saved my last five percent for an emergency. And this is it.” She taps the phone a few times and frowns. Nellie bags our stuff and I gather it all up in one hand, keeping my other firmly planted on the small of Pink’s back.
For some reason, I think it’s important to maintain contact. Not sure if it’s because I need it or because she needs it. Maybe it’s that I need itbecauseshe needs it. I need to reassure her, be there for her. Allie Pinkerton may be serious and all business and all kinds of competent on the surface, but I sense a crack in her foundation and there’s no way I’ll let her come tumbling down without being there to catch her.
Why?Who the hell knows. I’m no one’s idea of hero material. But I am developing some kind of thing for this girl—check that—woman.
We walk out of the store with me steering her because her eyes are glued to the phone. The wind has picked up even more and it’s loud. But not loud enough to block out the pups’ frantic yapping. These are not playful barks. I crowd around Pink to block the violent weather.
“We’re stuck here,” Pink says, shoving her phone back into her bag and looking up at me.
I open the back of the Land Rover, prepared to catch Moe, Larry, and Curly before they can escape, but they hold steady and calm down as I reach in and pet each of them. Pink reaches in and takes Curly in her arms and kisses her on the head. I’m jealous and warmed to the core by the gesture.
“Stuck?” I say, her words registering, but not making sense.
“On the island. Airport is shut down until further notice. Same with the ferries. We just missed the last one. Our only hope would be a private boat, but—”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I say. The decision to stay and fight has been made. “We can handle this. It’s a little weather. No prob.”
“Of course we can handle it. We have our provisions.” She waves a hand at the bags I put on the ground while I ruffle the fur on Moe and Larry to calm them.
“It’s just that . . .”
“You don’t want to be stuck here with me?”
She makes a face likethat tooand goes on. “We’re staying right on the ocean. You heard the lady. There will be waves. Big ones.”
“We can move to high ground if we need to.” I close the back and heft the bags off the ground. Opening the back seat passenger door, I put the bags inside. Pink takes her seat in front, still holding Curly in her arms, and I’m not sure who’s comforting who.
“With the dogs?” she says. Legit concern creases her brow.
“You bet. Besides, the house is a good ten feet above the waterline. I estimate we’d need fifty-foot waves to reach the foundation.”
“You estimate? What are you, an amateur meteorologist?”
“No. Let’s just say I have an interest in bodies of water and staying above them.” I force a grin and start the car.
“Bridges,” she says. I’m pleased as hell with her observation.
Out of the blue, rain pelts the windshield in big fat drops, some of those drops hitting hard like hail. The pups whimper.
“Shit,” she says.
I turn the windshield wipers on full speed and the hail comes down heavier now so I can’t hear her when she says something. Shaking my head, I put on the high beams, pull out of the lot, and into the street. Luckily there’s no traffic as I inch the car forward, concentrating on seeing through the blur and fury of rain and hail and wind.
The white-knuckle drive takes twenty minutes when it should have taken five. I glance at Pink now and then to see her nuzzling the pup, her eyes wide. We finally pull into the driveway and I press the remote to open the garage door.
“Fuck,” I say aloud. “No power.”
