“Would you be interested in joining our newsletter?”
Karen, whose name, ironically, is actually Karen, pauses before she asks, “Is it about products and stuff?”
This newsletter came to me on a whim. I have no clear plan. But I do have tons of ideas. “Yes. But also tips and advice and information about events we’re hosting at the store.”
Because apparently I’m hosting events now. Since when?
“That sounds wonderful. Sign me up.”
I open a note on my phone and take down her contact info. The idea of a newsletter makes me smile. And that smile sticks for the rest of my very busy day until it’s time to lock my doors and cash out for the night.
By seven o’clock, I’ve added five more names to my newsletter list.
As I swipe my note app closed, I see a message from my aunt. It’s only a kiss emoji from her morning message that I must have missed. However, I pause and read her words again.
What you think you become. What you imagine you create. Tell the universe what you want. Trust that it will gift you with all that you need.
Okay, universe. Today was a good one. No one yelled or stole. I managed to avoid any crippling thoughts of doom. You did a decent job at delivering on what I want. Now tell me what I need.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Hi, Gemma, it’s Sunny. We have a bonspiel Saturday night, and I’ve been scheduled to work. Any chance you can sub in for me??
A Saturday night hanging out with Dax? Touché, universe, touché.
Love to. Let the guys know I’ll be there.
Chapter 11
I play three of the greatest games in the history of curling. It’s probably more like three above-average games in a very mediocre recreational league, but it feels momentous. My hits—hit. My curls—curl. I have zero trouble finding the button, which I announce multiple times, each one getting heavier on the innuendo. We make it to the finals. Then we win. Absolutely crush Janice Simmertowski and her team, Curl Power. Which results in at least six rounds of celebration, all involving beer.
It’s happening again. That thing where one minute my beer glass is empty and the next it’s full, and I lose count—because fractions—and can’t even blame my sister. It’s 100 percent Dougie. He keeps filling my glass, then Dax’s glass, and then mine again. At some point during my very heated argument with Dax about whether mountain lions are the same animals as cougars, Dougie disappears with Brandon.
It isn’t until the bartender Lawrence announces last call and I look up at the clock, which says twelve forty-five, that I realize they’re not coming back.
“Those jerks cut and ran,” I say to Dax as he tries to hand his credit card to Lawrence, who refuses it.
“The good news is they paid the tab first.” Dax places his card back in his wallet, pushes back his chair, and holds out his hand.
I take it and appreciate its warm stability as I get to my feet and find out the world has gotten a little spinny. Dax keeps hold of me until we push open the Victoria’s doors and step into the parking lot, where Dax’s old Toyota Avalon is one of two cars left.
“We should probably walk,” he says.
“Definitely should not drive.”
Dax is probably as drunk as I am. Also, I don’t quite trust my dinner to stay down while riding in the back of an Uber.
We start walking in the direction of my place, which is the exact opposite direction of Dax’s. Still, I only realize this fact after two entire blocks have passed.
“Hey, you don’t need to walk me home. I can manage on my own.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I trip over the teeniest, tiniest crack in the sidewalk, pitching me sideways, straight into Dax’s chest. His hard chest. And his muscular arms hold me tight until my feet once again find steady ground.
“I’m walking you home.” His voice is firm. Authoritative. And I like it far more than I should.
“I’m out of your way,” I insist again. “If you walk me home, you’re going to have to walk twice as far to get—”
Oh shit.
Even in my intoxicated state, I realize I’ve yet again spewed out a fact I shouldn’t know.
Dax, however, doesn’t seem to notice. “Stop arguing with me,” he says, “I love walking. You don’t get an ass like this one without at least ten thousand steps a day.” He scoots ahead of me with an exaggerated waggle of his peach butt, then stops and looks over his shoulder. “I saw you checking it out earlier.”
“I was not.”
I totally was.
The first time was an accident. He was talking to another team. I didn’t even realize it was him when I ogled. The second time, he was crouching, and what can I say? He loves his tight pants, and he has a great ass. He knows it. I know it. I just don’t usually admit to it.
He begins to walk backward with cocky confidence fueled by a pitcher and a half of beer. “You’re telling me you weren’t checking me out? Even when I was doing this?” He turns and drops into a deep curling lunge like he’s just thrown a rock. It pulls his already-tight black jeans even tighter, and if I wasn’t staring at his ass before, I absolutely am now.
“Or maybe this.” He starts to thrust, which he definitely did not do on the ice tonight. And though I know he’s trying to be funny, I find it very sexual, which has me thinking of Dax doing all kinds of other sexual thrusting motions, to which my body is reacting with tingles.
In very private places.
Places that should absolutely not be tingling in response to my BFF.
“I deny everything,” I say, highly suspecting my flushed cheeks are indicating otherwise.
Dax comes out of his lunge and throws up his hands as if he’s giving up. “Fine. Deny it all you want. But you should probably know I was checking yours out.”
I don’t know what to say.
What I want to do is ask why? But that question has a strong probability of leading to an answer I’m not 100 percent ready to deal with at this moment. Me. Dax. All the consequences that come if we take another step. Instead, I walk on.
“Good,” I call over my shoulder. “Glad we straightened all of that out. Let’s go.”
We make it half a block before either one of us attempts to start a conversation.
It’s Dax who does it. While we’re stopped at a crosswalk, standing so close that I can smell the sandalwood-and-vanilla hand lotion they put in the bathrooms at the Victoria.
“Tell me something,” he asks, less like a question and more like a command.
“What do you want to know?”
He thinks for a moment. “Something personal. Favorite color? Pet peeve? Have you ever been in love?”
The crosswalk signal switches from the little red hand to the white walking person.
“Mint green, people who use the word whilst, and I thought I was once, but the longer I think about it and the better perspective I get, I’m learning I wasn’t even close. What about you?” I poke him in the arm. “You can’t throw out a question like that and not expect it back.”