FEBRUARY
𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Dandelions – Ruth B.
WHEN I ARRANGE our schedule for the week, I play with the Christmas gift Liam got me, a diamond-studded ‘35’ pendant, and release a contented hum—I live for this bullet journaling shit.
My double-page spread is split into seven days, and after Liam took me stationery shopping, I have color-coordinated stamps and Washi tape that helps me identify with a glance what Liam’s doing and when as well as—
“You’re cute.”
His interruption has me glaring at him while he makes us both a protein shake.
“I am not cute.”
As the blender does its thing, I wait for him to finish up, reading the morning’s headlines on the TV in the kitchen until he’s done when I warn him, “Take it back.”
“Or what?”
My eyes narrow as he slides a ‘Dallas’ water bottle over to me. “Or else.”
His lips twitch. “You’re not cute, Gracie.”
“Thank you,” I exclaim before I take a sip of my breakfast. Yum. “For how much this shake costs,” I say happily, “it’s only right that it tastes like peanut butter.”
“What kind of peanut butter do you eat?” There’s a morose tinge to his expression as he glowers at the drink. “This tastes of what it is: chemicals.”
Shrugging, I lick my lips. “I like it.”
“That’s because I put two tablespoons of maple syrup in there for you.”
“That explains it then,” I admit, tone guilty now because I know he only allots himself two teaspoons a day.
Not wanting to waste a drop when I feel a pearl of maple ambrosia beading at the corner of my mouth, I catch it with my tongue.
He studies the movement.
That’s something he’s doing more now since the night after that showdown with Pittsburgh. On Christmas Day, I felt like we were on the same page, but he’s changed. I can sense it.
He’s never blatant but he’s always watching me, and I can feel the momentum building.
It’s like when you’re a kid at the top of a hill with a snowball. Gradually, as gravity does its thing, it’s going to turn into a Grinch-sized ball that’ll make a great snowman’s body.
Except this snowman will be bigger than the Stay-Puft marshmallow giant from Ghostbusters by the time it comes to a stop.
Is it too late to yank on the brakes before we ruin one of the closest friendships I’ve ever had?
And if it is, do I even want to?
That’s the real question here.
In December, I did.
Then I saw his cum on the shower cubicle door…
It was a catalyst.
I’m starting to feel like if I don’t kiss him soon, properly, I’m going to explode.
Or implode.
I’ll take either at this point.
Peering over my bottle, aware that my cheeks are flushed at the thoughts of the many ways a man as strong as Liam could make me shatter into a thousand pieces, I recognize a distraction is required and work is exactly what I need.
“Stop bugging me. I have to sort out my organizer.”
Closing this conversation, I reach for my agenda and start to check off the shit I’ve done today.
Honestly, my planner has never been this full.
Or pretty.
Liam gave me too much money to spend in this Japanese stationery store over by Bryant Park. That means this bullet journal is loaded with colors and designs and all kinds of shit that I refused to buy in the past but it’s on his dime, so hell to the yeah.
I got midliners in different shades of sakura—cue sobs—a Sarasa Nano pen that makes me write like those peeps who design typography on social media videos. Washi tapes, special rulers that let me convert any standard diary into a bullet journal, rubber and wax stamps, bento-shaped erasers, and a massive case to haul around this shit with.
Honestly, I’m in stationery heaven because I didn’t just buy one of everything—oh, no—I bought a rainbow’s worth of colors on top of ten different kinds of styles because, hello, there was a zodiac and an astronomy pattern and a—
“Hey.”
Disturbed from my paradise, I glower at him. “What?”
When he picks up one of my erasers and starts tossing it in his hand, I quirk a brow at him and watch his eyes roll before he puts it down.
I wonder if the calluses on his palm would feel good rubbing along my inner thighs.
“I was thinking about your graduation ceremony.”
My brows lift. “Why were you thinking about that?”
He clears his throat. “I’d get there.”
I frown. “Get where?”
“To the ceremony.”
Oh.
Ohhh.
This is about the other day.
“Look, Liam, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but—”
“Thought you specialized in being a ball buster.”
“Proud of it,” is my cocky retort. “I’d prefer that after my name—Gracie Bukowski, ball buster—than MBA.”
He snorts. “Yesterday, you lived up to the title.”
Though I sniff, I’m also smiling. “Got to look after you. Especially when Bradley is frighteningly disconnected from reality.”
Like hell, I wasn’t going to read him the letter of NHL law after Liam’s head collided with the boards during drills and that old-school moron wanted him to jump straight into a scrimmage.
Little tap to the head, my ass.
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d tell him that to his face. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when he ordered me to make my assistant stand down.” He barks the words like Bradley did.
“As if anyone could make me stand down. Joel Quenneville couldn’t get me to close my mouth if I think something’s shady.”
“You and your obsession with Quenneville.” He harrumphs. “The stats are indisputable—Scotty Bowman has the record for the most games coached, the most wins, and the most Stanley Cups! How can you argue with that?”
“I can argue with myself in a locked room, dude.” I wag my finger at him. “That’ll be to your benefit when Kara and Andrews arrive.”
“Oh, Christ, I forgot that they’re coming.” He scrapes a hand over his head. “I’m going to reschedule. I can’t deal with their bullshit today.”
I frown. “That’s not like you.”
He heaves a sigh. “I’m talking to Mike later.” His therapist.
“You normally speak on Thursdays,” I point out.
How his jaw locks tells me more than words can.
I haven’t been staying over lately, trying to avoid temptation, so I have to assume he’s been sleeping like shit.
His answer is continued silence.
It makes sense, to be honest. We didn’t use the concert tickets that were his Christmas gift from me, and I know it’s gotten to him.
“I’d make it to your ceremony,” he grates out.
Sheepishly, I admit, “I wasn’t going to invite you anyway.”
His eyes bug out. “What?!”
“You’d want to come?” Embarrassed, I bow my head. “Look, this isn’t important. Finals aren’t even in my near future yet, and I could fail them all. Massively.”
“Failure is an alien concept to you,” he dismisses. “And of course, I want to attend. Cibole! I mean, I knew I’d need an invitation but never thought I’d have to ask you for one. You seriously didn’t think I was coming?”
Graduation ceremonies are in May and if the Stars continue in the same trajectory, they’ll likely be in the playoffs.
Which, if they take it all the way, would probably have the semis lining up with the ceremony.
In that situation, I know what would suddenly stop being important…
Do I set myself up for heartache or tell him he can’t come?
“You really want to attend?” I ask hesitantly.
“Of course.” His head tips to the side. “I’ll sit with your parents and—”
“I wasn’t planning on inviting them either.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m protecting future Gracie from being sad when they don’t show up on the day.” I heave a sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
His confusion hurts, but I know the score—Mom wouldn’t come because she doesn’t approve and Dad will have to work.
It startles me that he lets the topic drop long enough for me to get back to my task, but he makes my heart clutch in my chest when, tone ardent, he vows, “Even if we have a game scheduled that day, I’ll find a way to be there. I’ll just have to wear a hat.”
I’ll find a way to be there.
Why does that make me want to cry?
Still, the sappier he makes me, the brisker my tone is as I snipe, “Because that worked in Chuck’s.”
“I can grow a beard?”
I purse my lips. “That might work. A big bushy one? You’ve never gone that long before, have you? That would make you more incognito.”
“How bushy are we talking here?” he asks warily.
“Hohenheim long.”
“Ah, fuck. You and anime.”
I shoot him a smirk. “Never let it be said you don’t know what to buy me for my birthday.”
“True. You are easy.”
“You, on the other hand, are not. What do you get the man who has everything?”
His brow furrows. “I’ve never needed any gifts from you. Even for Christmas. The best part of opening your presents are your voice notes. I always keep them.”
I have no idea why, but that makes my cheeks tinge pink. “No way.”
“Of course.” He grins at my embarrassment then straightens up and leans over the counter to snatch his phone from the other side. As he does, his shirt ripples and tightens, snagging on his hip, revealing very touchable areas that are a ‘no-go’ zone.
His abs are thick with muscle, gleam like silk, and there’s a faint smattering of hair too.
As my nails curl into my palms, palms that instinctively know how good he’ll feel, he messes around with his cell.
A couple minutes later, he plays a voice recording I recognize from this past year, though we’d ended up spending it together.
“Okay, dingbat. Aside from the show which needs no explanation and I won’t sing to you because I don’t want your ears to start bleeding, this is a book. You read it from left to right. It’s full of information that will prove my love of Joel Quenneville. You’d better read it. There will be questions. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.”
He grins at me. “I finished it.”
“I thought you would have googled the CliffsNotes,” I say sheepishly.
“Nah. It was a great book, but you’re still wrong.”
I blow him a raspberry then, with a small smile, ask, “You want to come even though you have to grow a beard?”
Scratching his short, blunt nails—also sexy—over his bare jaw—sexier—he says, “Luckily for me, I don’t have to do much for it to grow. Doesn’t need watering but even if it did, I’d be there. Guaranteed.”
He doesn’t look at me, finishes off his shake instead, but if he did, he’d see how much that means to me.
My feelings for Liam have been messed up for years, but the urge to smack him and hug him is tipping evermore toward the hug side, and the craving to touch him is growing as well. Never mind the fact that he does and says shit that squeezes my heart with the ferocity of his cold-press machine.
He’s just…
‘Thirty-five hundred bucks on Japanese stationery’ sweet.
‘A bedroom in his swank apartment in colors of my choice in case we work late’ sweet.
‘I’ll attend your graduation ceremony when getting out of the door is hard’ sweet.
Actions speak louder than words and his confirm that we’re reaching a turning point.
This is honestly the first time in my life that I’ve lost sleep over dating a guy.
But Liam isn’t just a guy.
He’s… everything.
And if I fuck this up by being me, how am I supposed to live in a world where the one person who makes me feel seen hates me?
