11. Vera

Part of me wishes I could say that I had my head banged six ways from Sunday in my Staycation Express Room, but it would be a lie. There weren't even any more kisses—not real ones, at least—before we both fell into separate beds and passed out at the end of each day. Robbie was tired after a long day of corralling kids—something he swears takes more stamina than a pro hockey game—and I was worn out after a few days trying to find my footing in a town that moved on around me.

Who knew impromptu hometown visits and lying my ass off could be so damn exhausting?

The next morning starts with a Styrofoam cup held in front of my face. Robbie not only woke before me and snuck down to the complimentary continental breakfast for caffeine, but was thoughtful enough to bring some back.

"Coffee?" I sit bolt upright in the middle of the queen bed I'd claimed for myself. "For me? Gimme."

He holds the cup out to my wiggling fingers and I bring it to my mouth, gulping down the bitter, slightly burnt liquid. The coffee is strong enough to hold its shape even without the cup, but I don't turn down caffeine. Ever.

"It's from the lobby," he says, wincing along with me as I swallow my first sip. "I owe you something better, but I have to get an early start to the rink."

"This is perfect, Robbie. Thank you." I force myself to drink some more.

"I wasn't sure if you still take it black, but I brought fixings." He holds out a cardboard tote, the cups and sugar packets rattling with the movement.

I haven't taken my coffee black since high school. At home, I usually go for something sweet and exotic. I like the rose water latte or the lavender matcha cold foam at Tandy and my local shop, but I highly doubt Robbie has those ingredients in the box.

"I brought a little of everything." He ducks his head like doing so might hide his smile.

"This is so thoughtful. You remembered how I took my coffee?"

He puts the container down and I pry off one of the plastic lids to find something that looks and smells like vanilla creamer.

"That's oat milk. Tristan's a big fan. Half and half," he points to the second cup, "and regular milk." He shows me the third cup and starts peeling back the lid. "Of course I remember. That one lady did that interview about model diets and you added it into your morning routine."

Kate Moss. Kate Moss made a comment to her best friend Lily Allen about a super model's diet being black coffee, vodka, and cigarettes. At fourteen, I only had regular access to one of those three. After over a decade in the business, I'd add cocaine is a pretty common fourth for a lot of girls, especially at the height of show season. They decrease appetite, and give girls more energy, even if they are all hell on the complexion. Beyond the coffee, I never saw the appeal.

Tandy and I tried to smoke a pack of cigarettes once. Me, because all the models I knew smoked, her because she was dating a line cook who smoked like a campfire, and to be my moral support. The first inhale burned on the way down and hurt even worse when I hacked it back up in a spluttering cough.

"Thank you," I smile as I add a healthy dose of half and half to my cup. I usethe plastic spoon to stir it all together and pretend I'm not counting down from ten in my mind so that I don't appear desperate before asking, "Tristan?"

The name sounds familiar, and it doesn't matter—it doesn't, honest—but I can't help but wonder if I've seen her connected to him in the past. A gossip rag, tagged on socials, at some charity event. Her arm draped through his as they smile at each flash of the camera. Okay, maybe not smile, but turn their heads and find the light as the photogs snap away. Did she lean into his side and gaze up at him, painted lips pulled back into a breathtaking smile? Did his hand sit low on her back, sliding down when no one was watching? Did he pull her in closer, letting her take the weight off her ice pick heels as she leaned against the firm muscles of his chest?

Either the cream is off, or my green-eyed monster is showing herself.

It took years to shove my jealousy back into a dark box, turn the lock, and hurl the key into an abyss. Everyone promised me that if I stopped looking for him, he'd eventually fade away like a bruise. Still tender but not as obvious and without the constant ache. Then one day I'd wake up, and he'd be a distant memory. I'd never forget him, but I'd be able to look back on the years and experiences we had together under the rose-tinted gaze of youth. Most people don't marry their first love. They use them as a practice round, a learning experience.

Everyone was wrong.

Not knowing how Robbie was doing, who he was doing, was my undoing. My brain circled the unknown, creating possibilities even more horrible than each one before. I was a woman obsessed. Especially after the draft.

It was Tandy who offered a solution. Tandy who had a one-who-got-away back home, too. We started easy. Once a day, I had fifteen minutes to search for his name and read anything that came up. Tandy sat with me, holding my hand, and helped talk down my anxiety to manageable levels. Over time, we moved to every other day, then twice a week, once a week, and finally once a month. I haven't actively looked for news about Robbie Oakes in over a year.

One of Robbie's dark eyebrows lifts toward his hairline. It's like he can see in my innermost thoughts projected onto my forehead. A Saturday matinee at the cineplex, starring Vera Novak, dressed head-to-toe in green.

"Tristan," even the way he says her name makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end, "is the team's social media coordinator."

That is not a good enough answer and his half smile tells me he knows it. I purse my lips, blinking as my gaze darts away. I square my shoulders and tip up my chin. I don't care. I don't. I do not .

"She's Vic's wife."

Vic's.

Wife?

Now that he mentions it, I'm pretty sure I saw something online a while back. Something about a Vegas wedding chapel and an Elvis impersonator. Something that had not one mention of Robbie Oakes. I'm pretty sure Tandy showed me the article because she thought it was hopelessly romantic, getting married in Sin City on a whim. I thought they must have been drunk. My jealousy fizzles out like a candle with no wick and I take a sip of battery acid in a cup, praying my face doesn't give away my thoughts.

"She have anything to say to you about getting papped too?"

"Nope." He shrugs, big shoulders shifting under his dark blue t-shirt.

Robbie's throat bobs as he swallows his own coffee, and I try not to notice the stubble lining his throat or the width of his neck. I shift my gaze away to regain my sanity and get stuck on the bulge of his quads pushing against the nylon of his track pants. It's not my fault. He's perched his ass on the dark wood dresser, practically serving his legs up on a silver platter. Those thighs felt solid under me last night, cushioning the weight of my body as I held his face to mine.

I don't remember him being this size in high school, or at least not this wide. He was rangy before. Tall and lean with speed and agility on his side. He bulked up a bit more freshman year when he started joining the varsity boys in the weight room, but he was nothing like this. I'm a tall girl—kind of a requirement to be in my line of work—and he makes me feel small.

I never feel petite. Slim, yes. I know I'm skinny. It's a genetic trait that has been very helpful in the modeling world, but I'm not small. My best friend is five foot two inches of almost nothing. Most of her size is her blonde hair. Compared to her, I'm a giant. The Taylor to her Selena—her words—and that thin thing? It's never quite enough, although my name certainly helps now. It's been years since a casting agent or designer asked me to drop inches off my waist and hips.

I guess it makes sense that he's grown. I know guys hit their full height later than women, and a pro-hockey player should be bigger than a triple A high schooler, but I guess I didn't realize how much the man would differ from the boy. We both grew up, and it's a good thing we did. I loved high school Robbie with every atom of my heart, but we were kids. And man-Robbie? Well, I think it's clear that man-Robbie really does it for me. Last night was all the proof anyone needed.

I raise my eyes back to my ex to find him smirking at me, arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves pull over his biceps and I feel my tongue snake out to wet my lips. His brows lift, and he's looking at me the same way that the director on that sitcom did when I forgot my cue during a guest appearance. Apparently, I've missed part of this conversation, too.

"Sorry, what?"

I can feel my face heat and Robbie smiles wider.

"I asked if your team reached out?"

Reached out? About what?

I take a moment to place the question in our conversation.

"Right, about the photos. No, but they won't." It's just another day in the life of Vera Novak. Not that I think his PR team will care, either. I thought Tristan would get a chuckle out of Robbie getting spotted the same way she and Vic did. Tandy's called twice, but we can't quite figure out the time zones. I meant to call her back last night, but bringing Robbie back to my hotel room kind of ruined that plan. I'll try again once it's at least ten her time.

"Do you need me to drop you off anywhere on my way to the rink?"

I still need to get up, shower, hit the gym—if they have one—and get ready for the day. I shake my head.

"I'm good. Just going to have a lazy morning. Go for a run, wash my hair, maybe read a book, go see my dad." I smile at him. "Isn't that what people do on vacation?"

"Besides faking a relationship?" He nods. "Yeah, I think so. I've only heard stories, though. You'll have to let me know."

"I'll be sure to give you an update on my findings."

We both chuckle, the sound trailing off to leave us smiling at each other, eyes locked as memories swirl all around the room.

"Lunch?" He asks and I'm lost again as the blush climbs his cheeks this time. "We have a two-hour break around noon to let the kids eat and cool down. Would you like to have lunch?" He clears his throat. "With me?"

"Yes," I say, and then wince. "I mean no."

His face shutters, wiping clean like a blank slate.

"Right. My mistake." He stands up straight, not meeting my eyes. "I uh… I'll see you tonight."

He tosses his Styrofoam cup in the trash and grabs his hat from the dresser, turning it back and forth in his hands. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I didn't mean it that way. I fight with the blankets and sheets. Both are tangled around my legs and I can't move, can't get free.

Robbie is already at the door, reaching for the handle, and I fling myself off the mattress to land in a heap on the floor. He turns at the thud, no doubt wondering when I stopped being the graceful dancer he once knew and turned into the pile of blankets on the old hotel carpet.

"Wait," I say, panic turning my muscles watery. "Wait no. It's not that I don't want to."

"It's okay, Vera." He has his soothing voice on. "I misunderstood. This isn't real. After last night…" he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "I forgot for a moment, but you're right. It would probably be a bad idea."

It probably will be. Just like kissing him was. Just like telling everyone we're back together and letting him share my hotel room and just looking at him. All of this is a colossally bad idea, but I can't make myself stop. I don't want to stop.

"I can't do lunch because I already have plans with Birdie, Bridget." Her new name is going to take some getting used to. "But we could do dinner. Just the two of us?"

"Birdie?" He asks and shakes his head. "I thought… I'm an idiot."

"You thought I was saying I didn't want to?"

He shrugs and my eyes once again slip to the shift of his shoulders. Robbie Oakes used to be the hottest boy I knew. Now he might be the hottest man, and I've met some of the objectively most attractive men in the world.

"It's not smart. Getting close." He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Not when our lives are heading in different directions."

"No, it's not." I agree, but right now I don't care. I just want to spend time with him. "Do you take back your invitation?"

"I don't know if I can stay away from you," he says. The words a careful confession.

"I don't want you to."

The only sound is the whir of the over-powered air conditioning. I notice the chill at the same time Robbie does, his eyes dropping to where my nipples are trying to punch holes through the front of my silk pajama set. He's seen it before, when I put it on last night, but even then the lights were out and I hopped right under the covers. On instinct, I bring my arms up to cross them over the girls, but Robbie makes a strangled sound and I freeze. My throat goes dry. My heart pounds.

I drop my arms and Robbie shudders.

His eyes squeeze closed even as he smiles, pulling his hat off to run a shaky hand through his dark hair.

"Vera Aster Novak. Would you please have dinner with me tonight?"

I'm grinning, smiling so wide my cheeks ache, when I close the distance between us and press my lips to his cheek. It's possible I say my "yes" aloud, or maybe I just think it, but Robbie can read my answer in the sweep of my lashes and the curve of my grin. He turns his head and takes my mouth with his.