Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Sounds a little foolish, but not implausible.
Yeah, either Bishop or Tacker or hell, even Legend or Erik came by and gave Dax a ride to the arena for some reason. No way he is in that house because there is no way he would miss a mandatory team event.
I feel much better as I exit my car after grabbing my purse and the pharmacy bag. Letting my mind roam ahead to what’s in the refrigerator that I can make for lunch, I start for the house as my appetite is back in full force following my brief illness.
We don’t lock the door leading from the garage into the mudroom, so I turn the knob and push it open. I can see into the kitchen—the portion that contains the table at the breakfast nook and part of the small island.
Brows knitting in confusion, I creep slowly through the mudroom, more of the kitchen coming into view. There are lit candles on the table. It’s formally set with plates, silverware, and linen napkins.
Linen napkins? What the hell?
I smell something in the air. Italian maybe? Red sauce for sure.
My purse slides from my shoulder, and I drop the pharmacy bag on the small counter to my left as soon as I enter the kitchen.
Dax waits for me there.
He looks nervous. Shoulders tight, legs locked, and face pinched.
“Have I interrupted something?” I ask slowly, wondering why in the world he thought it was a good idea to have a romantic dinner with someone knowing I’d be coming home.
Dax’s own brow furrows in confusion. “Um… no. I thought we’d have lunch together since I’m leaving tomorrow for almost a week and we haven’t had any time alone with Willow visiting.”
Okay… that just adds a million more questions to the already-long list I’d made under the theory Dax is unhappy with our situation and needs to be cut free.
He’s certainly not making it easy.
My eyes roam over the romantic table setting before returning to him. “But… you should be at the team skate right now.”
“I got a pass,” he replies, taking two steps toward me. His hand goes to my elbow, and he leads me over to one of the chairs. “I got some lasagna from Bella Italia. I know it’s your favorite.”
Yes, it is. In the short few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve already found a favorite Italian place. I am touched by his thoughtfulness in—
“No, wait a minute,” I say as I come out of the haze of being wooed. I pull my arm away to glare at him. “You can’t just get a ‘pass’. You have obligations. It’s mandatory you be at the arena. What the hell is going on?”
Dax blinks at me over the vehemence in my voice, but he mildly says, “I want to spend time with you, Regan. I talked to Coach, and he gave me a pass.”
“I don’t fucking understand any of this,” I cry out in frustration as I wheel away from him. I take two steps toward the living room, thinking flight is the best thing to do, but then no… I just spent all morning going over the possibilities in my head, so maybe we just need to hash this out right now. I wheel back around to face him. “I heard you and Willow talking this morning right before I left.”
Complete understanding flows over Dax’s face. “I thought something was going on when you walked out the wrong door.”
“Yeah,” I say with challenge. “I was a little upset to learn how horrific things are for you with me around.”
That sounded totally childish and petulant, but now I’m being driven by pure emotion. My future happily ever after is getting ready to be put to rest right now.
Dax’s expression softens with sympathy, and I hate that look. When he steps toward me, I backpedal.
He stops, giving me some space, but says, “That’s not what I said, and you know it.”
I shake my head, not wanting to hear the reason in his voice. “You said this was too hard.”
“Not too hard,” he corrects me. “Just hard.”
“Well, I don’t want things to be hard on you.”
“That’s my problem, not yours.” Ugh, he sounds so fucking in tune with his feelings, like he has this all figured out. Calm, rational, and not easily susceptible to my arguments.
“It makes me feel bad you feel bad about me,” I say truthfully. It’s the closest I can get to boiling this down to simple words. “And I can’t have that on me. You’ve done so much for me, and I cannot have this disrupting your life. It’s more than I can bear.”
“I’m sorry,” he tells me, taking a tentative step toward me. “I never want to make you feel bad. It’s why I talked to Willow and not you. Yes, it’s hard. It’s terrifying watching the woman I love face the things you’re facing. I want to make everything right for you, and I can’t. It makes me feel weak and powerless and a failure to you.”