15. CONOR

CHAPTER 15

CONOR

T wo texts and a phone call to Sierra have fallen into a black hole. Fortunately, I'm a man of some sense—not a lot, let's not go overboard—and guess that I have no right to blow up her phone just to satisfy my curiosity. But she's the only one right now who could tell me whether this event will live or die, because it's not like Gramps and I are on speaking terms right now.

It's when I'm driving home at the end of the day when my phone finally buzzes. I'm stopped at a red light so I take a quick peek, and it's not Sierra. It's none other than my grandfather himself texting me.

Be home for dinner at seven sharp.

Huh?

I check the time on the dashboard and snort. How can he text that when it's five minutes till?

Once the light turns green, I take a right and change course for Gramps's neighborhood. He still lives in the house I grew up in, not too far from Sierra's. I hope she's okay. Like, I don't really have a significant baseline since, well, we've only started communicating a few weeks ago. But after we legit started working together, we've had a timely back and forth and this is odd.

What if she got into an accident? What if she never even reached the rink?

I park haphazardly by the curb of my childhood home and walk in the door exactly five minutes after the hour. "Gramps? Did Sierra come see you at the rink? She's not responding and I'm worried."

"You're late," he grouches from the kitchen, followed by the sound of pots banging.

I round the corner and freeze at the entrance to the kitchen.

It's only in this moment, as I take in the strangest scene I've ever witnessed with my own three eyes, that I realize I'm huffing and puffing and that my heart beats a mile per second. I can finally rest assured that Sierra's fine because she's in my Gramps's kitchen. And I can guess this is also why she couldn't respond earlier, because her hands are busy stirring the contents of a pot.

What's more shocking is that she's wearing matching Christmas aprons with Gramps, emblazoned with two merry snowmen drinking what appears to be cups of eggnog. And they're frilly, too. The ruffles don't look half bad climbing up Sierra's shoulders, but Gramps's face is almost getting drowned in the things.

I'm not even conscious of plucking my phone from my pocket and snapping a picture. Or ten.

"Hey—"

I interrupt Gramps. "Can someone tell me what the hell is happening here?"

"Watch that mouth of yours, kid." Gramps places his hands on his hips.

I press my lips hard to not laugh but some of it escapes. Sierra glances at me over her shoulder with the most curious smile. It makes me forget what I was thinking about. "Sorry, I looked at your texts but I haven't been able to answer. As you can see, I'm more than okay."

I turn away and hope my beard and scarf hide the blush creeping up my neck. "Good. That's—No worries. So, I suppose it went well?"

"Yes, I accomplished what you couldn't in a matter of seconds." Her dark eyes twinkle with competitive spirit.

Gramps grunts. "It helps that she's much easier to talk to."

Or to look at? Because if so, yes. If she really set her mind to it, she could scam me out of the clothes off my back. I definitely wouldn't mind that.

Clearing my throat, I unzip my jacket and start unwinding my scarf. "What can I help with?"

"Wash your paws and set the table," says Gramps, but since he's taken over the sink washing something, I change tack toward my bathroom.

I need a moment to process this bizarre twist, so I take my sweet ass time washing what Gramps described as paws. My glasses are foggy from a day's worth of dirt, so might as well wash them too. Not because I'm avoiding seeing Sierra and Gramps be all happy and familiar together, or all the weird things that's making me feel. Like I could get used to that sight. Like I want it to be a normal occurrence.

Nah, not at all. No one's freaking out here or anything.

I dry my hands with a towel and snatch a couple of tissues from the box to lightly pat my glasses dry. My first year with glasses taught me a lot. First, that you can't treat prescription glasses like they're hockey helmet visors, or they break. Second, that those fancy cleaning cloths they come with take too long to dry compared to how frequently glasses get dirty. Third, that rubbing them with paper will scratch them—but patting is okay. Just have to be gentle.

I'm in the middle of this operation when I walk back out into my childhood bedroom and find my coworker standing there.

"Whoa!" I startle and jump back, which makes my glasses slip. I catch them mid air, sparing myself from an uncomfortable drive home with bad vision. "Um, Sierra. What are you doing here?"

"Gramps sent me. He said it'd be interesting to see where you grew up, and you know what? He's not wrong." She's still wearing that funny apron and it just serves to stress how none of this makes sense.

"Uh…" I ball up the damp tissue in my hand and put my glasses back on. "Anything interesting, then?"

"So many things. For example, this. When was this?" She points at a picture tacked onto a cork board that hangs over my desk, where I used to half-ass my homework. I step closer behind her and a big sigh empties my chest when I see which one.

"First grade." I wrinkle my nose. I'm six years old in the picture, grinning up at the camera like I had no concerns in the world, even though I was missing the entire front row of my teeth. Both of my parents held each of my hands, and although you can't see him, Gramps was there too. He's the one who took the picture.

Sierra chuckles and it's like bells and twinkling lights, hot cocoa with marshmallows and a snuggly blanket, all in sound version. "That's a lot of teeth to be gone at the same time."

"I stopped a puck with my mouth, it's how I learned that I didn't want to be a goalie," I respond with a thick voice. Will it be weird if I clear my throat? I'll just try to swallow down the weird feeling.

"Um." She turns her face to me, biting that perfect lower lip of hers. "Can I ask you what happened to them?"

I'm close enough to feel the heat of her body radiating against my arms. I can inhale the scent of her shampoo and the smell of food that clings to that damn apron. Sierra Fernandez is in my childhood bedroom, asking me personal things like she's curious about what makes me me .

"Traffic accident," I respond after a moment. "Just a couple of months after that picture was taken."

"Oh, Conor. I'm sorry." She lifts her hand to find mine, and gives it one squeeze before dropping it.

Shit. What if I want her hand in mine for longer than that?

"Thanks. It was a long time ago and I uh, don't remember them very well." I rub my neck just to get rid of the feeling of her hand squeezing mine.

"You really look like both of them though." She studies them for a moment. "You have your mom's hair color and her smile—with teeth, of course. But adult you looks so much like your dad."

"Yeah." I smile a little, because I hadn't laid eyes on this picture in a long while. But she's right, I have both of my parents faces in mine. "I guess that means I'll look just like Gramps when I'm old."

"Not a bad prospect." Sierra snorts. "You wouldn't believe the amount of old ladies I caught checking him out when we went to the supermarket earlier."

"How did that even happen?" I shake my head. "Actually, how did you even get him on board?"

Sierra clasps her hands at her back and pivots to face me. "It wasn't hard and I'm not bragging. I just explained what's riding on this for both of us."

I scratch my beard, analyzing her. "Clearly, my reasons weren't the ones that convinced him. What are you doing all this for, Sierra?"

"My grandmother." Her eyes soften, lips stretch into a soft smile. "She lives back in our home country and her health isn't getting any better. I want to share at least this Christmas with her, if only once. "

"So it's not because of an apartment?"

She has the decency to turn sheepish. "No."

"You lied." I narrow my eyes.

"Kinda? I'd like to have my own place one day, but it's not the main reason why I'm after this bonus and the promotion."

"That makes sense," I say softly even as I fold my arms. "But you still lied. Why?"

"I didn't trust you." Sierra admits this openly. "I didn't know you."

"And now?"

"I'm getting to know you." Her eyes sweep around us, to the faded posters of Gretzky and Dryden, the medals and ribbons nailed to the walls without order, the bookshelf leaning under the weight of books, gear, and old toys, to the tiny bed I hated during my teenage years. "And very closely, at that."

I swallow hard. I want to ask her if she wants to learn more. If she's liking what she's found so far. But something holds me back.

I've never been the smoothest talker with women. That kind of talent comes from self-confidence, and I've always lacked something in that department. Whether it was my upbringing, or the fact that I was a good player but not the cream of the crop, also not the most good looking guy in the room, and smart but not about to win awards for that either. In just a few short weeks, Sierra has seen everything about me, all of my shortcomings and everything I've lost. Not to mention that we've been cat and dog for two years. I can't imagine she'd want anything with me.

So, I clamp my mouth tight and don't ask, even if curiosity will be gnawing a hole through my stomach later tonight.

But it's like she's gone and read my mind, because all of a sudden she says, "You're a good person, Conor Mahoney. I'm sorry I didn't see that before."

My mouth opens .

"Hey, are you up to no good in there, or why is Conor not setting the table?" Gramps yells from the hallway, as if he didn't dare approach any closer.

Sierra and I jump away from each other as if we had been, in fact, up to scandalizing shenanigans.

"I'm—Um. Can I just use your restroom for a second?" Sierra pushes a curl behind her ear.

"Yes, of course. I'll—I'll go set the damn table."

"Hah, yeah."

"Yeah…"

We both pivot in opposite directions at the same time. I make a whole racket as I stride toward the kitchen, hoping Gramps knows who exactly is coming.

"Gramps," I hiss anyway. "What the heck was that?"

"Well, you never know. Two attractive young people alone in a room?" He starts chuckling in his usual raspy way and then stops. "You do find her attractive, right?"

I frown. "What kind of question is that?"

"Well, she's very different from that ex of yours."

"Whoa, okay. My head's spinning here." I lean a hand on the table and massage my forehead with the other one. "Are you by any chance trying to matchmake me with my coworker?"

"I knew there was a brain in that thick skull of yours."

I growl. "Gramps, she's my coworker. It would be inappropriate to?—"

"Not if she also wants to?—"

"Not to mention," I say a little louder to drown his voice. "She all but hated me for years."

"Past tense. You did learn what that means in school, right?" He blows on a spoon loaded with stew and takes a careful bite. "Besides, she cooks really damn well. You should've seen how fast she chops vegetables. "

"Yeah, well. I think she said both of her parents work so she grew up pretty self sufficient."

"Sounds leaps and bounds better than that spoiled Nikki of yours."

I lower my voice. "Can you please stop comparing them? It's just not gonna happen."

"Not with that attitude. Listen to me, kid. If you don't want to grow into an old lonely bat, you should open your eyes and really see what you have standing right in front of you."

I clench my jaw and run a hand through my hair.

I see it, alright. I have three eyes that combined work pretty freaking well. Sierra is amazing—smart as a whip, true to herself, hotter than the center of the sun.

"Let's just drop it, okay?"

"You can't keep running away when things get hard, Conor." And with that, he's turned it around to our earlier fight. "You have to try and it's okay if you fail. That won't kill you, will it?"

"What are we talking about right now? Sierra or the conversation from before?"

"Both." He jerks a thumb towards the hallway. "That girl didn't beat around the bush to get what she wanted. Learn from her."

I frown. "Even if what I want isn't what you want?"

"Yeah." Gramps sighs heavily. "If that will make you happy, then fight me tooth and nail. We wouldn't have reacted so big before if you hadn't avoided the topic for so long." He pauses for a second. "But then, I wouldn't have met the future mother of my grandkids."

I groan. "Gramps, if you say anything weird in front of her over dinner, I will kick you out of your own house."

"In this weather?" He puts a hand on his chest, as if offended.

"Gramps…" I growl his moniker in warning .

"Fine, but move a little faster. I don't have decades for you to waste gathering your nerve to ask her out."

That's when steps echo down the hallway and a second later, Sierra appears. "Whoa, why is the table not set yet?"

"I'm coming." I give Gramps one last warning look, and pull up a drawer to collect utensils.