24. Devon

Devon

I'm outside Lola's hotel at exactly five forty-five in the morning, and I decide if she isn't ready, I will march inside and drag her out here myself.

She sent me plenty of texts explaining why picking her up this early was practically a hate crime, but I didn't respond to a single one. The ball is firmly in her court, whether she wants to take this whole date thing "seriously" or just fall back on the dinner and a movie plan I suggested in the first place.

Based on her virulent opposition to the time, I'm betting on her chickening out and going for a few hours of extra sleep.

To my shock, she comes out of the hotel at exactly five fifty-five, strutting to my SUV and hopping into the passenger seat. Then, she turns, her hair flying and whipping over her shoulder, and gives me a self-satisfied grin.

I stare at her, my mouth hanging open.

Lola is wearing a little pink coat with frills on the ends and boots with tiny pink bows. Half her hair is in two buns on the top of her head; the rest is loose around her neck. There are little pink stars on her face, and she has a full face of makeup. She looks like an American Girl Doll in a winter-themed outfit.

"Lola," I breathe, looking her over and trying to ignore the way she makes my chest tight. I told you to dress warm."

"This is surprisingly warm," she defends, blinking sleepily at me. For a moment, I feel bad for making her get up this early, but then I remember the fact that she's to blame for this fake dating situation and for saying a dinner date isn't good enough. "I have insulated tights on under this skirt."

"Okay," I say, unable to stifle the laugh that rises up in my chest. When she figures out where we're going, she's going to wish she'd worn something a little more…substantial. The wind will blow right through that skirt, and her boots are clearly not waterproof.

I pull away from the hotel and head north. Lola falls asleep almost immediately, her head lolling to the side, the tiniest, softest snores escaping her. It's fine by me. I enjoy the quiet, the solitude. There's something about being awake—and being on the road, specifically—that makes me appreciate being alive.

My chest pangs when I think about the first time someone did something like this with me. It was a foster dad who happened to be taking his son out at the same time. He'd brought me along because it would have been cruel not to. I knew I was an extra, a little footnote to their family story, but I cherished every single second of that trip with them.

It was the first time I felt like I belonged to a family.

The sun starts rising over the horizon when we pass through the border and into Canada. The rays catch in Lola's hair and reflect through the car, and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on the road.

I would be lying if I said she didn't look gorgeous, all dolled up and fast asleep in the passenger seat of my SUV. I want to reach out and run my hand through her hair.

The night I had her in my bed, I should have been paying better attention, cataloging every detail. If I had known I wouldn't get to have her again, I would have taken much more time with her.

It occurs to me, all at once, that I haven't gotten to taste her, and my cock stiffens in my pants. I blink hard to clear the thought, and that's when Lola starts to stir, her hand reaching out and grazing my thigh.

"We're still not there yet?" she murmurs, even though we've only been driving for 45 minutes. I suppose to a city girl used to having everything at her fingertips, this must feel like a long drive just for an activity.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, glancing at her. "All this snoring must really take it out of you."

She pulls her head back, and I watch as her chin smushes into her neck. It's too adorable—and so is the glare she's giving me.

"I do not snore," she says, clearly affronted.

"It's not a big deal," I say with a laugh. "Most of the guys on the team snore."

"One," she says, counting on her finger, "how do you know that? Two, do you really think comparing me to a bunch of hockey players will make me feel better? And three, I do not snore."

"You're adorable when you're angry," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. I watch as a flush of pink spreads across her cheeks, matching her outfit, and I decide I should definitely tease her more often.

"Don't change the subject," she huffs. "How do you know most of the guys on your team snore?"

"Well, I've shared a hotel room with many of them. And we've done team-building getaways. One year, the coach made us rent this cabin together, but half the team got fleas, and we had to call it after just a few days."

"That's hilarious," she says and chuckles, leaning down and digging a little notebook out of her bag. She starts scribbling in it, and when I crane my head to look, she pulls it back, giving me a suspicious look.

"What?" I ask, my eyes narrowing. "You literally grabbed that while I was talking to you. It's clear you're writing about me. What is it—your diary or something?"

"No," she says, rolling her eyes. "I would never carry my diary around on my person. That is such a rookie move."

"Then what is it?" I probe.

"What is what?"

"Don't pull that—you know I'm talking about that little pink notebook."

She takes a deep breath like she's trying to decide whether to divulge the information. I can't help it. I desperately want to know what it is and what she's writing about me in there. I've never been this curious about a woman before.

"Fine," she finally says. "I'll tell you, but if you tell a single other soul on this planet, I'll never speak to you again."

"Oh," I say, raising my eyebrows, "is that a promise?"

"Oh fuck you," she mutters, rolling her eyes, but I see the faintest look of hurt beneath her blasé expression, and I wish I could take what I said back. I'm always speaking before I think. The way I feel during the press conferences comes to mind, and I realize saying what I think without a filter is kind of a chronic issue of mine.

"I'm sorry—" I say after a moment of silence passes. I glance at her, meeting her gaze, and the moment is a lot more weighty than I mean it to be. "Please tell me what's in your little notebook?"

"It's my writing book," she says softly, running a finger over it. "I keep a notebook for each of my projects. I'll paste pictures in there, take notes when I'm out and about, write down little snippets of conversation I want to steal, that kind of thing."

"Pink is not very inconspicuous."

She laughs. "I'm not trying to be inconspicuous. Plus, I like pink, and I've decided I'm going to stop avoiding the colors I like just because some people might think I'm just a vapid blonde."

"How could anyone think that of you?" I ask, once again saying words before thinking them through. It might be my tone or just how my voice sounds in general, but it comes out sounding sarcastic, though I don't mean it to be.

It's like I can feel Lola's mood plummet, and she shifts her body away from me to look out the window. But I've already apologized once during this conversation, and doing it again might make it seem fake, so I chew on my lip for a whole minute until the SUV comes to a stop at our destination.

Lola seems to forget that she's pissed at me because she turns to me, her eyes wide.

"What is this?" she asks, looking around. The sun is still only just up over the horizon, and through her eyes, I can see how she might think we're out in the middle of nowhere. But to me, it's clear we've just arrived at exactly where we were going.

"This," I say, cutting the engine and turning to her, "is the absolute best spot for ice fishing."

"…ice fishing?" she echoes, sounding uncertain as she opens the passenger side door.

"Yeah," I say excitedly, unable to keep the grin from my face. "This is about to rock your world, Lola."

The look on her face says she doubts it, but she doesn't want to be seen as difficult. So she smiles, turns, and jumps directly into a puddle of squishy mud, which soaks her pretty pink boots.