Across the table, Pippa gives Jamie a meaningful look. He clears his throat and turns to Rory. “I need a best man.”
Rory’s hand stills on my shoulder. “Yeah, you probably do.”
Jamie’s eyebrows lift. “You up for it?”
A beat passes. “Only if you’re sure.” There’s a hesitant note to his words.
It feels like he doesn’t think he deserves this. My heart aches.
“I’m sure.” Jamie gives him a nod. “I want you to do it.”
Rory relaxes, and his fingers go back to brushing long, distracting strokes over my skin. “You know I’m in.”
Jamie sits back. “Good.”
“Yeah. Good.” I catch the side of Rory’s smile.
There’s a pause where no one says anything before Pippa gestures between them with exasperation. “Hug each other.”
Rory chuckles and Jamie actually smiles as we all move out of the booth. They stand and give each other a masculine, backslapping hug. When Rory drops back down beside me, it’s me who’s watching him with a little smile. He shoots me a wink before shifting closer, and his hand lands on the part of my shoulder that meets my neck. A second later, his fingers toy with the neckline of my dress, sending shivers and tingles down my back.
The guys start talking about their upcoming game, but I’m half listening, focused on the tickling sensation of his fingers on me and thinking about the fun we had earlier, bounding up the stairs and laughing like kids. He was so different from the flat, unimpressed version of Rory I see on the ice. He was lit up, glowing from within.
I want to see that version of Rory Miller again.
CHAPTER 21
HAZEL
When we leave the bar, it’s chilly and damp outside like it’s been raining. I shiver in the night air, and Rory loops an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. He’s warm, and he smells unfairly delicious.
“We don’t need to pretend out here,” I remind him, but I’m not moving away.
“You’re cold,” he says, like that settles it.
We walk in silence, listening to the sounds of the city around us. Music spills out of bars and restaurants. A car horn honks. Two drunk girls stumble, clutching each other and laughing hysterically, and Rory leads me around them with a smile. A group of guys passes, and their eyes go wide at Rory. That’s Rory Miller, one of them says.
“That was fun tonight,” he says, grin turning smug and feral. “Hartley, McKinnon’s face when you hit him?” He shakes his head, glancing down at me in admiration. “So pissed.”
I snicker. “I knew he’d hate that. He was always like that. Always needed to be the best. Needed to one-up everyone.”
An ugly thought bleeds through my mind.
“Did you know?” My voice is quiet as we walk. “Back in high school, what Connor was doing?”
“No.” His eyes flare, pinning me. “Hazel. I didn’t know.”
Earlier, I called him Rory. It slipped out, but it felt so natural. Now he’s calling me Hazel, and I love the way he says my name, even when I’m scrambling for ways not to like him. The sound of my name in his deep voice makes me want to hear it again.
He shakes his head, eyes still on me, and his tone is firm. “If I ever heard him say that shit, you’d be the first to know.” His mouth slants. “If I had sensed any trouble in paradise, I would have taken my shot.”
My stomach flutters. Strangely enough, I believe him.
Fuck. That’s bad.
Finally, we reach my apartment. Under the maple tree out front, I search in my bag for my keys. “Thanks for walking me home.”
Rory slides his hands into his pockets, gaze roaming over the old building. “Invite me up.”
Delight and nerves spin together in my stomach. “This again?”
“Hartley,” he teases as I roll my eyes, smiling. “Where are your manners? I said I was going to see you home safe and I take this very, very seriously.” His grin turns roguish. “Besides, I want to see your place.”
“You’re scheming.”
He blanches, looking overly offended. “I would never.”
I’m shaking my head to myself even as I unlock the front door. Why am I letting him in? He should go home. “You would.”
He smiled tonight, though. A lot. And he laughed and looked happy. We laughed together. So for some reason, I’m holding the door open for him as we head inside.
As we ascend the second-floor stairs, he sniffs and makes a face. “Smells weird.”
I shrug. “Someone on the second floor makes a lot of cabbage rolls.”
We keep climbing the stairs, and he studies the carpet, stained and threadbare, with fraying edges. “This place is really old.”
“It’s cheap, and the landlord isn’t a creep.” I give him a tight smile as I lead him down the hall to my door. “Okay, well, I’m at my door, so. Thanks. Good night.”
He tilts his chin at it. “Show me your place.”
My stomach pitches with a nervous feeling. Rory comes from money, and he already thinks my building is gross and weird. “Go home, Rory.”
“I hate my place. I want to see yours.”
“Your place is no doubt a hundred times nicer and a hundred times bigger than mine,” I say as I unlock my door. “And I’m sure it smells a hundred times better.” The door creaks as I swing it open, and I gesture at the studio. “Ta-da.”
Rory steps inside, looking around as I take my heels off. Although I’m fairly tidy, my furniture is shabby, my kitchen is tiny, and the carpet is an ugly brown color.
“You’re not staying,” I say as he kicks his shoes off.
He slips off his jacket. “Where’s the rest of your apartment?” He shoots me a grin, feigning confusion.
“Very funny.”
His gaze lingers on my tiny two-seater kitchen table, the couch, and my bed before he stretches his arms out, looking between the walls. “I can almost touch both walls at the same time.”
“No, you can’t.” Yes, he almost can. My face is going red with embarrassment. “You have a big wingspan. Your dick must be huge. Okay, you’ve seen my place. Time to go.”
He gives me a look like I’ve grown another head, but his eyes flare with amused delight. “What did you just say about my dick?”
Oh god. I’m flustered. Why do I say the weirdest things around him?
He takes pity on me and turns away, studying a picture on my bookshelf of me and Pippa from a few years ago. She has the same one in her place. “Is the team not paying you enough?”
“They pay me enough.” Above market rate, which is another reason I’m holding on to this job as long as I can. “I don’t like wasting money on rent.”
His head tilts as he reads the titles on my bookshelf. “Are you a cheapskate?”
I laugh in frustration. “No. I’m saving for when I open my own studio.”
Understanding passes over his features, and he glances around my apartment again, wandering over to my dresser.