22. Where the Magic Happens

CHAPTER 22

WHERE THE MAGIC HAPPENS

ABBI

Working a double shift always seems long. But Sunday’s seems to drag on forever. I’m excited to see Weston. Really excited. I tell myself that it’s just the sex, which is epic.

But it’s scary how much I really like him. And the fact that he seems to like me too is giving me all kinds of romantic ideas that I shouldn’t be having. Whenever I catch myself daydreaming about him, I want to slap myself.

He hasn’t offered me a future. But he did offer me his kitchen. So earlier today I bought the ingredients to make a huge vanilla cake with pecan praline icing, just like my mother used to make.

Meanwhile, I’m waiting tables on what has turned out to be a hellishly busy Sunday. Carly is in a surprisingly bad mood, too. But it’s been too crazy for me to corner her and figure out why.

There’s finally a lull at quarter to eight, and I catch up to her by the soda machine. “Hey,” she says, a tired look on her face. “Any chance you want to close for me?”

“Oh, crap. I really can’t. I, um…”

She laughs. “You have plans with a certain defenseman who won against Notre Dame last night?”

“I do,” I whisper. “But keep quiet about that.”

“Of course. And I’ll stick it out here.” Carly’s expression droops .

“Are you okay?” I press. “If you really need me to stay, I will. You worked for me on Thursday.”

“How did it go in New York, anyway?”

“It’s hard to say.” I tell her about my dodgy interviews on Thursday. “And then on Friday I interviewed for the marketing teams at two fun, girly brands.”

“That sounds better.”

“You’d think,” I grumble. “But they just want social media coverage.” And they were intimidating in a completely different way. At both interviews I was asked which were my favorite designers.

I’m way too poor to have favorite designers. So I’d had to twist the question around and explain which clothing brands were doing the most interesting things on social media. And that worked pretty well, I guess.

I don’t think I stuck the landing at either company. And I came home feeling defeated. “But enough about me,” I say. “What’s got you down?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine, Abbi.”

“You don’t seem fine,” I argue. “Seriously. Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

She opens her mouth and then closes it and shakes her head. “I don’t want to stress you out with my drama.”

“But that’s what friends do, right?”

Carly looks torn. And I’m mentally tearing up my evening plans to close for her if she needs me to. “I had a run-in with Price,” she says.

My stomach drops. “Oh no. When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“But bouncers don’t work afternoons. Where did you see him?”

“Here.” She winces. “He’s training to be a bartender. You know how they train people on the lunchtime shift?”

“You are kidding me!” I yelp. “This is terrible.”

She nods grimly. We both know that Kippy is strapped for bartending help. One time Carly and I offered to train as bartenders, because the tips are better. But Kippy prefers men. And he had the balls to tell us right to our faces that he wouldn’t let us try it because we’re the best servers he has .

Neither of us wants to argue ahead of our bonus anniversaries, either.

“It gets worse,” she hisses. “Price made a point to tell me that he’ll be seeing a lot more of me. Then he grabbed my ass when I was standing at the touchscreen working on an order.”

“I hate him,” I whisper.

“Two more months,” Carly whispers back. “That’s all I have to stick this out until my bonus check. Let’s not panic yet,” she says, although she looks to be doing that very thing.

“Okay,” I agree just as the bartender on shift dings his little bell. “That’s my last drink order for the night. I’ve already dropped the check, too.”

“Go,” Carly says, shooing me. “Go be with your man. I’ll be fine, Abbi. We both will.”

I’m sure she’s right. I’ve survived Price before. I can do it again.

The hockey house is a big, multipeaked Victorian home just off campus. The lights are blazing from inside as I climb the stairs to the big porch. My arms are weighed down by a shopping bag full of groceries, and I’m feeling a little foolish.

Lots of women go to parties at the hockey house. It’s just that I’ve never been one of them. The total number of college parties I’ve attended is a pretty low number. I started college less than a year after my mother’s death, when I still lived in Dalton’s home. Both grief and a long commute prevented me from becoming a partier. That was a dark time, and I’m lucky I got decent grades and stayed in school.

So it almost feels like I’m visiting a foreign country as I approach the door.

Before I can reach for the doorbell, the door flies open, and Weston’s smiling face appears. “Abbi! You made it! Let me take that.” He opens the screen door and takes the bag with one of his strong arms.

And then? He uses the other one to scoop me into a kiss.

A really good kiss.

Top-notch .

When he pulls away, it’s too soon. “Somebody's been hard up for a week,” I whisper. And I might mean me.

Weston doesn’t reply. His warm eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and I get one more kiss on the temple. “Come in. I made the freshmen clean the kitchen, just in case you were serious about making a cake.”

“Oh, I was dead serious.”

“Awesome. Come on, let me show you the place.” He turns to carry my grocery bag into the house.

I straighten my spine and follow him into the living room, where a dozen or so hockey players and various women are perched all over the furniture. The Bruins game is playing on a giant TV on the wall.

“This is where the magic happens," Weston says, indicating the whole first level of the house with a sweep of his arm. "If by magic you mean a lot of debauchery and smack talk."

"Noted." I peel off my coat and Weston hangs it on a coat rack. And I swear every head in the room swings around to stare at us.

"Uh, guys. You remember Abbi from the Biscuit.”

"Hi, Abbi," several voices call out in unison.

“Tonight she’s our guest, yeah?” Weston says. “That means her glass is never empty.”

“Got it,” says a freshman who’s seated on the floor. I guess the furniture is for upperclassmen.

“Good,” Weston says. Then he takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.

He hadn’t been joking. It's a great kitchen—not fancy, but spacious. There’s a big table with eight chairs, too. And my favorite appliance—the mixer—gleams in the corner. "Wow. Time to cream some butter and sugar."

“Cream? Oh honey, yessss! ” He lets out a salacious moan.

"You perv."

He grins. "How about I help you with this cake? Then I can perv out later."

"Don't you have a game you're supposed to be watching?"

Even as I say these words, a loud chorus of groans erupts in the living room. And one lonely cheer.

“You hear that?” Weston points over his shoulder with his thumb. “I think I can follow the game from here. The Bruins just got scored on.”

“Someone was happy,” I point out as I unpack butter, sugar, and flour from my bag.

“One of the freshmen is a Rangers fan.” Weston makes a face.

“And you allow that?”

“We tolerate it. Nobody’s perfect.”

You are . Ugh. It’s inconvenient how much I like Weston. I know we’re just a temporary thing. But I am going to miss him fiercely when I move away. “Will you preheat the oven to 350?”

“Sure.” But he doesn’t do it. Instead, he moves to stand behind me. Then he lifts my hair and kisses my neck.

My body flashes hot, and goose bumps rise up on my arms. He kisses me again, his lips soft and yet insistent. “Westie, don’t take this as a criticism. But it's hard to make cake when you're so distracting.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Okay. Put me to work. Keep my hands busy, or I’m going to have to find other uses for them.”

“Right. First the oven, and then…” I pull a printed copy of my mother’s recipe out of my coat pocket. “Can you measure out three cups of pecans? We have to chop them and then fry them in butter.”

“You got it,” he says.

The living room lets out a sudden cheer.

“Ooh, score!” Weston says, pulling open the bag of pecans. “Let’s do this.”