Someone shuffling sounds from inside.
“Just stay put! I’ll bring them in,” Richard hollers, winking at Brenna and taking Jack’s hand in a firm handshake. “Good to see you again, Jack. You know, last we talked I didn’t realize you played for the Gophers.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack’s cheeks flush. I know what he’s thinking—for Richard to know that, Brett must have said so, which means his idol was talking about Jack.
“Go on in, both of you. Brett’s just over there, resting on the couch.” He smiles at me. “I’m so glad to see you again, Catherine. Meryl will be happy to hear that you’re here.” There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. I can’t read it entirely, but I’m fairly certain it’s positive. At least I hope it is. I didn’t quite realize until just now how much it matters that Brett’s parents approve of this thing between Brett and me.
I drop my voice. “How is he?” Brett and I have talked every day, mostly via text, but our conversations have been light. Flirty. I haven’t broached the subject beyond the ambiguous “How are you feeling, today,” to which he hasn’t elaborated beyond “alive.” As if that’s all he has to hold on to, in all of this.
Richard shrugs. “He’s trying. It doesn’t help being cooped up. I’ve tried to keep his mind busy with our charity stuff, and I managed to get him out a few times. You know, to lift weights at the gym, or just enjoy the good weather by the river, but . . . I’m glad you’re here.” Ushering me in with a hand laid ever so gently on my shoulder, he leads me around the corner.
My breath catches at the sight of Brett, stretched out on a brown leather sectional, his leg propped up on pillows on top of a rectangular coffee table.
His intense gaze locks on me and he says nothing for three . . . four . . . five seconds before giving his head a small shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up to meet you at the door. Or get dressed.” He gestures at his long, lean body clad in a soft black Flyers T-shirt and black track pants.
And here I was, just thinking how appealing he looks, his hair falling back in a natural wave, his jawline hard and shapely, his blue eyes genuine and bright. The scar across his forehead is impossible to miss and yet I barely notice it. “It’s okay. You have a pretty good excuse.”
This man wants me.
And the last time I saw him, he was kissing me with abandon, leaving my lips tender for days, and the rest of my body envious. I’m desperate to feel the press of his mouth against me once again. But I stay where I am, whether it’s because of the audience, my impressionable daughter, or I’m suddenly feeling shy around him.
“My mom bought that for today.” Brenna points at the short black jumpsuit I grabbed at Threads just yesterday, after having admired it on the mannequin while shopping last weekend. The silk material is soft against my skin; the style loose but flattering—a one-piece slip on, cinched at the waist by a silk tie, the top sleeveless with a deep-V cut into both front and back, the shorts showing off a lot of thigh but not too much. It’s classy and stylish, something my wardrobe sorely lacks.
I feel my face redden as Brett does a lightning-quick scan, stalling over my bare legs, before turning back to give Brenna his attention. He smiles. “She looks very nice.”
“Yeah. She does,” Brenna says in that casual way of hers. “Did you know that my uncle plays hockey, too?”
“I did. We met last week, remember?” Brett reaches forward to shake hands with my brother, who’s desperately trying to play it cool.
Brenna wanders over to a glass case in the corner of the room that houses Brett’s plaques and trophies, her backpack still slung over her shoulders. Brett’s eyes are on her the entire time, an unreadable look in them. “Did you win all these?”
“I did.”
She nods slowly to herself, and then her rich brown eyes roam over the rest of the living room. I let mine roam along with hers.
Brett’s condo is nothing like I imagined.
“Modest” would be the word I might use for it. It’s a corner unit and double the size of my house, easily, but I assumed it would be bigger. Also, it’s sparse. The glass case is really the only personal touch I see. The place is simple and clean. The main area is open with a high ceiling over the living room. A loft overlooks us, with an industrial--looking set of metal stairs leading up. Everything is light—white walls with only two pictures hanging on them, soft gray curtains to block out an impressive view of the river, should they be pulled closed. To be honest, it looks like Brett just moved in. Or that living here is only temporary.
Richard heads into the adjoining sizable kitchen—with white marble countertops and stainless steel appliances—and opens the fridge. “I’m gonna order pizza in a minute. Can I offer anyone drinks? Water, beer, wine . . . I was sent out for some SunnyD for the little lady.”
Brenna’s face squishes up. “The orange stuff? That’s for my mom.”
Oh, Brenna. My face barely had time to cool down.
The sound of Brett’s laugh carrying through the place almost makes up for my embarrassment.
“Where’s your bathroom?” So I can drown myself in the toilet.
Brett points to the hall on the far side. “First door.”
“Get your coloring kit out of your backpack,” I instruct Brenna on my way past her, adding in a whisper, “and stop telling him all my secrets.”
Brett’s chuckle follows me all the way to a small but clean bathroom. The décor is as generic as the rest of the condo. Not that I wouldn’t take Brett’s place in a heartbeat. I would just put some personality into it.
Then again, he is a guy, I remind myself. A guy who travels a lot and is probably not sitting in Philly all summer in the off-season.
I do a quick check of myself, thankful that Lou let me take off a few hours early from work today. The beachy waves that Misty taught me how to put in my hair with the curling iron are holding well, as is the subtle smoky eye makeup I worked on for almost a half hour.
Brenna’s little voice chirps from the living room. “I’ve seen you on the TV.”
“Well, I am on TV, sometimes.”
“No, but like all the time. We have this thing. If you press the red button, it’ll tape what you’re watching onto these big black tapes.”
Oh, no.
“A DVR?” I hear Brett ask.
“Yeah. I mean, no.”
“Sounds more like a VCR,” Richard offers.
“People still use those?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my sister is ghetto,” I hear Jack mutter.
I leave the bathroom in a rush.
“My mom taped a lot of shows with you on them. She watches them every single night after I go to—”
“Brenna!” I exclaim rather loudly, cutting her off, my cheeks burning bright. I spear Jack with a glare for not putting a muzzle on her sooner, but he grins wider, tipping his bottle of beer in the air toward me. Bastard. He knows I won’t pull a Hildy Wright and take it away.