16. Rosie

Chapter 16

Rosie

I collapsed onto the wooden chair next to Dylan, surprised to see him still at the restaurant. I thought he’d skip out as soon as the game ended, but it had been over for almost an hour.

He slid a plate with a slice of pizza toward me. The slice had been piled with an entire pizza’s worth of pineapple. I snort-laughed. Okay, he could be playful sometimes. That was hopeful.

I stared him straight in the eye and took a huge bite of the pizza slice. Not bad. It was at least fifty percent pineapple and cold, but I might have found a new favorite.

Dylan made a disgusted face, but he laughed too. It was interesting to see the lines around his eyes relax and realize how much of that was from stress.

“So I take it you’re not a fan of pineapple on pizza?” I asked between bites.

“Not even a little.” He slid his full mug of root beer toward me next, and I drank half of it in one gulp. I hadn’t even realized how thirsty I was. I pulled up my notes app on my phone and typed:

1. Doesn’t like pineapple pizza.

“What else?” I asked him.

“For what?” he asked, frowning. I missed the smile.

“I’m getting to know you,” I informed him. “So people will believe we’re together. It’s going to take more than a side hug for this to get back to Max.”

His frown deepened. “Max?”

“Eriksson. The whole reason we’re doing this.” I circled my finger between the two of us. “To make him fall madly in love with me. You’re the unsuitable love interest.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I knew you wanted to get together with that tool.”

“Um, the pot and the kettle and that whole thing,” I replied, but I leaned close, because even if he was talking about my love, tea was tea. “What’s your beef?”

“Max and I have never gotten along.”

“Jock versus nerd,” I said, nodding. “Clichés are cliché for a reason.”

He scoffed. “No,” he said, but some of the sparkle was back in his eyes. Good. “It was nothing major. He’s just always been a condescending jerk. Maybe he’s changed.” From his doubtful expression, it was clear he didn’t actually believe that. But people changed all the time. Look at my dad.

Which reminded me. I pulled out my tips to count them.

“What else should I know about you?” I asked as I flipped through the bills. My tips were always really good on nights the Peaks played.

“I play hockey.”

I waited, and when he didn’t say anything else, I stopped counting my money. His folded arms showcased those fabulous biceps. It may have been unintentional on his part, but his distraction technique was working.

“There’s got to be more to you than hockey,” I pressed.

“It’s the only important part.”

“And the pineapple thing.” I stuffed the bills back in my apron with a sigh, too distracted now to count accurately. It was becoming apparent to me why fans had a hard time connecting with Dylan. He was clearly very focused on hockey, to the point of neglecting everything else. “Did you do your assignment?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” I asked skeptically.

He crossed his heart with his fingers. “I read the entire book.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“My favorite scene was when she barged into the locker room after they had that huge fight—”

“Stop!” I put my hands over my ears to block him out. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Then how am I supposed to prove I read it all?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t really think he’d do it. I mostly gave him the assignment to get under his skin. “Did you like it?”

He tilted his head to the side as if thinking about it. “I did. The author got a few things wrong, but I can tell she did her hockey research.”

“And the romance?” I teased.

“I would have liked the book better with a little less kissing and a little more game time.”

I laughed. That tracked. “Give me your phone.”

He snatched it from the table and held onto it.

“Dyl, you’re going to have to trust me.”

He reluctantly placed it in my hand, and I found his photo roll. The pictures he’d taken tonight were hilariously bad. The pizza was in focus and not his face. Or he somehow managed to give himself a double-chin. I found one that was so bad it was perfect. It looked like an accidental shot. It showed an extreme close up of his face, and he didn’t have the scowl he usually wore because he was looking off in the distance at something.

I posted it with the caption. “Next time: Less kissing, more ice.” Then put the title of the book and five star-emojis after it.

Dylan took his phone back and read the post. “The author is going to think I hate it.”

“You’re teasing her, and she’s going to love it.” I nudged his side. “We’ve got to show people you’re not so serious all the time.”

“So pretend to be someone I’m not.” He scowled down at the table.

“Nope. Just let some of those walls down keeping everyone out. There’s more to life than hockey.”

“Not for me. When are you off?” Dylan asked.

I checked the time on my phone. “About fifteen minutes ago.” I grinned at him. “My boss is going to close up tonight.”

“I’ll walk you hom—” he started, but his words were cut off when a running toddler bumped into our table, knocking Dylan’s half-full soda glass over. Soda careened toward me. In a flash so quick I hardly had time to process what was happening, Dylan lifted me from my seat like I weighed no more than a slice of pizza and set me in his lap.

His lap .

The one with the muscular legs connected to the muscular stomach connected to the face only inches from mine. He was warmth and hardness all rolled into one, and he smelled like spearmint gum and my triple berry body wash. Almost no time had passed since he grabbed me, and yet all my senses took him in—from his hands splayed against my hips to my legs pressed to his.

Then time sped up, and the entire cup of soda spilled across my empty seat a breath later with a splash.

“I’m so sorry!” Max said exasperatedly as he caught his racing nephew by the back of the shirt. When he saw me and Dylan, his expression went from apologetic to blank. “Hi, Dylan.”

Dylan grunted a hello. Max looked back and forth between us, the puzzle pieces clicking together. For one second, I froze. I debated. Was pretending to be in a relationship with Dylan really the right way to get Max’s attention? What if it backfired? Dylan’s arms wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me firmly him. Max’s gaze flew down to his grip.

My resolve strengthened. I wrapped an arm around Dylan’s broad shoulders, to make it that much clearer. He’s my boyfriend, see? I sit on his lap in public. We’re so cute and obvious. You’re really missing out.

Max’s nephew let out a shrill squeal that broke Max’s gaze away from us.

“See you around, Josie.” Max picked up his screaming nephew and hauled him over his shoulder to high-tail it out of there.

I, on the other hand, had not high-tailed it off Dylan’s lap, as I should have several seconds ago. It was going to be real awkward … any minute now.

Dylan’s mouth twitched. “Comfortable?”

“Actually, yeah. Better than the futon.”

“That’s a really low bar.” He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret but was definitely not, My brain is buzzing with over sensation.

Nope.

More like: My jaw can cut through diamonds.

No, wait. That was my thought again. Dylan’s hard ridges had me in a haze.

He shifted his weight, and the movement knocked me to my senses. It was one thing to take advantage of an opportune moment, but quite another to decide to live in that moment.

He could lift you, Charlie whispered tauntingly.

Shut it, Charlie.

I hopped off his lap like I’d never been there. I grabbed a rag from the counter and cleaned up the spill, and then held out a hand to help him Dylan out of the chair.

“I don’t know why you keep thinking you’re strong enough to help me up,” he grumbled, ignoring my hand and standing.

Offended, I put my hands on my hips. “It’s a friendly gesture. It’s not like I think you’re going to be dead weight I’m hauling up.”

“It’s more likely that I’ll pull you down on top of me than you’ll successfully help me up.” He snagged his hoodie from where he’d set it on an empty chair and followed a step behind me as we left the restaurant. The streets of Winterhaven were less busy than usual for a summer night, with only a handful of people out exercising or visiting the shops still open for another hour.

The sky was overcast, and a slight drizzle fell onto our shoulders. I shivered, and Dylan offered me his navy Peaks hoodie.

I put it on gratefully, and inhaled the scent of him, only this time with less triple berry. His cologne smelled like an expensive kind. I pulled the hood up around my head.

We walked home much slower than we had to the restaurant, even with the drizzle. It would pass soon, or it wouldn’t. But if we let inclement weather stop our activities in Winterhaven, we’d never leave home.

“I’ve told you about me.” His hands were stuffed in his pockets, the only indication he might be chilled. “What should I know about you?”

I didn’t quite know where to start. Should I go straight into trauma dumping with my family history? Keep it light and fun? Or my favorite, a spicy mix of both.

“I’m a pseudo-orphan.” Always an attention getter, that line. From the way his entire body ceased moving, it had worked with him too.

He blinked. “I’m sorry? What does that mean?”

“My mom died when I was a kid, and my dad took off right after.”

“That sucks, Rosie.”

I shrugged. “I have three protective older brothers, which is like having three fathers. Feel sorry for me about that .” Guilt tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me about Dad in the houseboat, but that had to stay a secret.

“Sounds like an interesting childhood.” He was so serious, I bumped playfully into his side to put him at ease.

“Oh, and I’ve been arrested four times. By your dad.”

Dylan winced.

Whoops. I’d meant to make him laugh, but I’d forgotten their relationship was weird.

“Not handcuffs arrested. Just, ‘come to the station with me’ arrested. I like to paint, scheme, rope my friends into my schemes, and I have a wild imagination. I hate lemonade, any songs played at weddings, and bottomless chairs, which is a recently acquired hate, if you’re wondering.”

His expression did not appear wondering, which was good. The bottomless chair story was not one I wanted to retell any time soon.

“And I’m madly in love with Max Eriksson,” I finished.

“So, he calls you Josie?” he asked, looking at me sideways.

I waved my hand like it was nothing. “Inside joke. Tell me about hockey,” I said, mostly to see if I could get him talking on a subject he was comfortable with.

He answered hesitantly, and I had follow-up questions ready about stats and sticks and legendary players. As long as he was talking about hockey, he seemed to relax and breathe normally. Which meant I could relax.

I really enjoyed talking to him once his walls cracked open. He wasn’t letting me in, not even close, but it was something. And I liked this something. A lot.

Getting the internet masses to like Dylan was going to be a piece of cake.

Getting Max to actually fall for me? That might take a miracle.