THE WALK to the dog park is silent and tense. When we arrive, Jamie scans the fenced-in area before his shoulders relax and his frown lessens. I wave and smile at a few people before I let Daisy off the leash to greet the other dogs.
Does he not trust me with Daisy? I chew my lip as I run through possible reasons he came with us. The guy’s been avoiding me for a week.
“This park is really safe,” I tell him. He’s leaning on the fence, arms folded over his chest, with a scowl on his face. “I’d never bring Daisy somewhere unsafe.”
His scowl softens. “I know. I trust you.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes almost look… amused? “I wouldn’t have asked you to move in if I didn’t trust you.”
I make a dubious face. “You didn’t ask.”
He coughs and looks away. Was that a laugh? It’s so hard to tell with him.
“We should get to know each other better.” His eyes are back on me, and it’s tough to look away. They’re the color of Douglas fir trees. Of the earthy green moss in Stanley Park. Of a deep green rock at the bottom of a creek.
“Um.” I blink stupidly in surprise, feeling shy. “Okay. What’s your favorite food?”
His eyebrow goes up. “That’s your question?”
“I had zero warning you were going to want to talk today, or I would have prepared a list of questions.” My smile turns teasing.
The corner of his mouth twitches again, and his eyes almost look soft. I like this look on him.
He watches me for a long moment. That girl who demanded her job back surfaces, and I stare back at him.
“Christmas dinner,” he says, still watching me in that unnerving way that makes my stomach flutter. “Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli casserole.”
“Cranberry sauce?”
He nods. “Homemade, not canned.”
“Of course.” I smile. “Are you crazy about Christmas?”
“Not really, but my mom loves it.” He looks over at Daisy, who has a stick in her mouth and is trying to bait another dog to chase her. “We spend most of the time cooking together and watching Christmas movies.”
The way he says it makes me think that he just likes seeing her happy.
He slides a glance at me, studying my face. “I liked those enchiladas you made, too.”
Pride fills my chest at a job well done. “Great. I’ll make them again.”
Daisy sprints past us, chased by a golden retriever, having the time of her life, and I smile at Jamie. His mouth twitches as our eyes meet.
Every time I smile, his mouth twitches. That realization makes my stomach warm and liquid, and I smile wider at him.
Maybe he’s not such an asshole, after all.
“Next question.” My hands are getting cold, so I tuck them into my jacket pockets. “Why hockey?”
Looking around the dog park, his eyes narrow as he puts his answer together. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start at the beginning.”
He snorts. “I got my first stick at two years old.”
“Wow.” My eyebrows shoot up. “Your dad’s a big hockey fan?”
His expression changes, barely perceptible, and he frowns. “He was. He died.”
“Oh.” My heart drops, and now I remember reading this. Shit. I should have remembered. “I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I don’t remember him. It happened when I was really young. He was a drunk, and he wrapped his own car around a pole.”
“Shit,” I breathe. That’s so tragic. I study Jamie, but he seems unaffected by this.
“Seriously.” He stares at me. “I don’t remember him. It’s always just been me and my mom. That’s enough for me.” He glances away, rubbing his sharp jaw. “Hockey’s fast-paced, more than any other sport, and the feeling of being focused on the game, shutting everything else out, it…” The corner of his mouth twitches again, and his gaze comes to mine. “On the ice, it’s like nothing else exists.”
My heart squeezes. That’s how I feel when I’m writing songs. Or when I used to. Like everything fell away.
“I like being part of a team,” he tells me, arching a brow. “But I like being the only guy in the net, too.” His big shoulders lift in a shrug. “I like the pressure.”
“Do you like your new team?”
“I’ve played against them before, but I’m not friends with any of them.”
“What about those cupcakes?”
His gaze shoots to mine in confusion.
“The container was empty. You gave them to your teammates, right?” He freezes, a guilty look crossing his handsome face, and my jaw drops. “Oh my god. You threw them out.”
He shifts, glancing around the park. The guilty look intensifies.
“Jamie.” I’m giving him an appalled look, and when I say his name, he turns and gives me his full attention.
It’s intoxicating.
“Did you dump those cupcakes in the garbage?” I cross my arms, but I can feel the smile twisting on my mouth. “They were terrible, weren’t they?”
Our eyes are locked, and the side of his mouth isn’t even twitching; it’s curving up. God, his eyes are pretty. The way he’s looking at me, amused and intense, it’s making my stomach flutter like crazy.
Are we flirting right now? I can’t look away from him.
“They were incredible.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and my eyes widen a fraction.
We are so flirting right now. What?
I blink about twelve times, memorizing this moment so I can analyze it with Hazel later. “So you didn’t dump them.”
He shakes his head, still giving me that smirky half smile. “I ate every last one.”
I’m melting. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening to my insides right now. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He’s dropped the smirk, but his eyes are still sparkling, amused, almost happy, even.
“If I make more, are they going to make it to the team?”
“Probably not.”
I laugh, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
God, I want to see a full smile so badly. I bet it would knock me off my feet, make my hair flutter with the force of it.
“You brought your guitar,” he says, changing the subject.
My stomach drops. I can’t tell him the truth.
“It’s nothing.” I force a smile and shake my head. Then I roll my eyes. Too much, I tell myself. Too fake. “It’s my old guitar that Hazel doesn’t have room for. I bought it for myself after graduation.” Alarm bells ring in my head as I veer closer to the topic of high school. I roll my eyes again, trying to convey a no big deal vibe, which I’ve never been able to master. “I don’t even play anymore.”
He’s doing that staring thing again that makes me feel like I have no clothes on. “Why not?”
“Um.” All I can think about is Zach on stage with that new woman, and how easily replaced I was. With a better model, too. New and improved.
“I don’t know.” I frown at my sneakers. “I learned when I was twelve, and then I met Zach—” I glance at him. “My ex.”
He makes an unhappy noise of acknowledgment.
“We would always mess around with music and stuff. I’d play a tune, and we’d sing it together or something.” I play with the hem of my jacket. “Even when we were on tour, sometimes I’d play if it was just me and him hanging out.” Shame settles in my stomach, and I worry my bottom lip with my teeth.
I hate being the girl who got dumped. I hate that Zach left an ugly mark on me. The breakup is like a weight holding me down.
I lift my gaze to Jamie’s, and there’s something in his expression as he listens to me talk. Something sweet and sharp, and it makes me want to stay here in this dog park for a whole day, talking.
“Whatever,” I say, putting on a smile to shove away the weird Zach feelings. “It’s in the past.”
His eyes move over my face. “You have a nice voice.”
My face falls, and embarrassment weaves through me. “You heard me singing?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he nods. “That day I…”
Oh, right. The day he nearly saw me naked. Cringe. My face heats. “Everyone sounds good in the shower.”
“No.” He gives me a hard look. “They don’t.”
Jeez, he’s so intense. A tiny shiver rolls down my back at his firm tone. Is he this firm in bed? I try not to bite my lip at the arousal that shimmers through me. The idea of Jamie Streicher on top of me, naked, sweating, and wearing a look of agonized ecstasy, is very, very hot.
“You have a great voice,” he tells me again. “You know you do.”
When my grade twelve music teacher said that to me, Zach made it seem like the teacher was being nice. Like the teacher felt sorry for me.
“I’m not going to do anything with it.”
He glares at me.
“I’m not performer material,” I tell him, echoing the words Zach said years ago.
You don’t have it, he’d said. Oof. It’s still embarrassing that I even tried. Especially when my mind flicks to his new manic pixie dream girl.
“It’s okay,” I reassure Jamie.
“Your ex is a fucking loser to let you go,” he bites out.
My breath catches. His eyes flash with fury, and I tilt my head, studying him. He frowns harder. He’s about to keep going, but I cut him off.
“Let’s go.” My tone is bright. I don’t want to be sad, hurt loser girl right now. I just want to forget.
His gaze lingers on me for a moment before he nods and drops it. As we walk home, I ask him about his upcoming schedule and fish for other ways I can help around the apartment. He’s resistant, though, and besides taking care of Daisy and ordering groceries, he doesn’t ask for much.
I make a mental note to buy more cupcake ingredients, though.
We’re a block from the apartment when something in the window of a music store catches my eye, and I stop short.
Oh my god.
The guitar of my dreams sits on display in the front window, gleaming. The photos in the guitar magazine I flipped through a couple months ago didn’t do it justice. In person, I can see the fine craftsmanship, the details in the grain of the wood, the shape that I can practically feel resting on my leg as I play. It’s beyond beautiful. My gaze traces every line, each string, every fret, memorizing it.
It’s made from a mix of walnut, mahogany, and spruce wood. In the video I watched, the guitar sounded warm, rich, and full. The company only made a thousand of them, and there’s one right in front of me.
I bet the inside of that guitar smells incredible. I think this is what they call instalove.
I want it. I want it so freaking badly. I can’t afford it, though. If I get the marketing job and I’m very, very good with my money, maybe I can find one in a year or two.
I catch myself. Why am I pining over my dream guitar when I can’t even pick up the one I have? There’s a sharp ache in my chest.
I realize Jamie’s watching me watch the guitar, wearing a curious expression.
“Sorry,” I chirp, turning away from the guitar. “Let’s go.”
When he leaves for his game that evening, he actually says goodbye.
“Break a leg,” I tell him, sitting on the floor of the living room, training Daisy to “leave it.”
His eyebrow goes up in alarm. “Good luck is fine.”
I picture the brutality of hockey and how breaking a leg isn’t that unrealistic. “Sorry. Good luck.”
He nods once before he’s gone.
That evening, I’m lying in bed, thinking about the conversation we had at the dog park. I replay Jamie’s facial expressions, the amused spark in his eyes as he listened to me talk, the piercing gleam as he talked about hockey and why he loves it.
I wish I could see him smile. I picture it, and my stomach flutters.
And there it is—a trill of notes in my head. I sit up in the dark bedroom. It’s just a few notes, but it’s that same feeling as before, when I’d sit with Zach on a couch with my guitar and we’d goof around. It’s a sparkling pressure in my chest, like fizzing bubbles. I place my hand over my sternum, smiling out the window, and I’m so relieved I could cry.
Zach didn’t break me. That girl I used to be is still in there. I just have to find a way to get her out.
I think about Jamie again, and I wonder if it has anything to do with him.
