Chapter 2

Culver

I shift in the passenger seat, doing my best to conceal my discomfort.

It's no use.

Fraser glances over and clocks it right away. "You okay, man? I can pull over again if you like?"

"Nah. I'm good. Thanks."

"Okay," he says slowly. "Let me know if you change your mind."

I grimace through a throb of pain snaring my left hip. "Will do."

I've already added an extra half-hour to the drive from LA to Comfort Bay, having Fraser pull over twice to let me stretch my legs. We've only got another ten minutes or so left, so I'm determined to suck it up.

We're coming back from a three-day off-season training camp.

Coach's idea.

Every few weeks over the summer, the entire team will be summoned to LA for a team training session.

Last season, our performance was up and down with the downs outnumbering the ups. We barely scraped into the playoffs and only made it to the third round.

It didn't help that I sustained multiple injuries and, as of last week, got diagnosed with a labral tear in my left hip. Something no one outside of my medical team knows about.

I'm twenty-nine, and my body is breaking down, which is kind of a perfect metaphor for my life right now.

But I put all of that out of my mind for now and turn my thoughts to something a lot more fun—surprising Hannah.

She thinks I'm arriving in two days, but I hatched a plan with Chester and Katie to be back the night before they leave for the summer.

They were more than happy to go along with my surprise.

I'm sure it has everything to do with getting to spend some time with their favorite honorary uncle and nothing to do with my promise to whip up my world-famous—well, Comfort Bay-famous—spaghetti Bolognese.

Fraser and I drive the rest of the way in silence.

"Thanks for the lift, man," I say a few minutes later as he brings his Range Rover to a stop in front of Hannah's bungalow.

"No problem."

He cuts the engine and looks over at me with a smile, which is odd because neither one of us has said anything funny.

His eyes flick to the front door then back to me. "It's nice you're surprising Hannah by showing up a couple of days early."

"That's because I'm a nice guy," I say, keeping my delivery dry, unsure where Fraser is heading with this.

"How do you know she's not at home?" he asks.

It's Sunday, the one and only day Hannah doesn't work at her flower shop.

"I texted Chester a few minutes ago." I hold up my cell phone. "He told me she went to the grocery store."

"So once you drop your luggage off here, you're?—"

"Going to surprise her at the grocery store, yes. Hey, look out the window, Fraser. See that tortoise? It's going to reach wherever it's going faster than you are. I assume you're trying to make a point."

"No, I'm not." His smile broadens. "Okay. Maybe I am."

"Help me out and use some words."

He turns sideways so he's facing me. "I'm going to paraphrase what a doofus once told me."

Why do I get the feeling that doofus is me? "O-kay."

"This will require accompanying hand actions."

I hastily jerk my hands back and out of his reach.

He laughs. "My hands, doofus. Not yours. Here. Let me make my point."

"Please do. I'd like to get to the grocery store some time this year."

He lifts his right index finger into the air. "You."

He lifts his left index finger. "Hannah."

He smooshes his fingers together. "Point made?"

I press my head against the headrest. He's throwing back at me the same thing I said about him and Evie in their early days. The only difference is, I was right about them. He's wrong about this.

I've lost count how many times I've had to explain to people that Hannah and I are not a couple. Why can no one accept that a man and a woman can just be friends?

"First of all, no." I shoot him an unimpressed glare. "Second of all, no."

He snickers. "Look. I know we've had this conversation before, but I've been picking up on…signs."

"What sort of signs?"

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "Remember the night we lost the fourth game in the third round of the divisional playoffs and you, me, Evie, and Hannah went to the diner afterward?"

"Yeah."

"They were talking, and you and I were talking, and then Hannah overheard you mention something about possibly spending the summer here. Her eyes lit up."

"So? We're friends. Friends like hanging out together."

There's nothing weird about that, is there?

He shakes his head. "It's more than that. I've been spending some more time with her at the flower shop and?—"

"Yeah. About that."

His eyes widen. "What? Are you jealous? That's good, man. Lean into that feeling. If it triggers any possessiveness, that's even better. Is my face looking very punchable right about now?"

"It is, but not for the reason you may be thinking." I narrow my eyes. "I'm not jealous, but I am mad at you."

"What did I do?"

I start tapping away on my phone.

He looks at me, and after a few moments, says, "Dude, your phone isn't even on. What are you doing?"

"I'm sending you a petition signed by every man of legal age in Comfort Bay. We're all mad at you."

"Why?"

"Uh, how about because you bought your girlfriend a hockey stadium and two junior teams."

He folds his arms across his chest. "So?"

"So? So how the ever-loving heck are the rest of us mere mortals meant to compete with that? You've set the bar impossibly high. We're all doomed to fail."

"You're exaggerating, man. I'm sure no one's even heard about it, and if they have, I doubt they care."

"Hello. Earth to Fraser. This is Comfort Bay. Everyone knows, and everyone cares. Nonna called to say there's been a line-up outside the bakery for special edition hockey cupcakes. Three days in a row. The Comfort Bay Facebook page?—"

"Comfort Bay has a Facebook page?"

"It does, and you'd know this if you weren't the only twenty-something in the world not on social media."

He shrugs. "Social media sucks."

"It does, especially when it's filled with posts gushing over what you did for Evie. And apparently you can't walk a few feet in town without overhearing someone—a female someone—swooning over what's now being referred to as the granddaddy of grand gestures."

"I'm…sorry?" The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk, and he looks like he's about to make some crack about it, but noticing my less-than-impressed expression, he pivots. "Look, I didn't do what I did because I wanted to impress everyone in town or for it to be known as…whatever people are calling it. And I definitely didn't intend to make it hard for anyone else to live up to. I did it because it felt like the right thing to do for the girl I love. It's as simple as that."

A moment of silence passes.

"Yeah. I know," I mutter begrudgingly.

There's a reason he's one of my two best friends, and that's because he's a decent, genuine guy with a good heart and zero bad intentions. Even if he is closed-off and guarded and more defensive than a goalie during a shootout.

"You could buy Hannah one flower or a thousand," he says. "As long as it comes from the heart and means something, she'll love it."

"She's a florist, so I hardly think buying her flowers is going to have much of an impact," I reply, and then when I see him grinning like an idiot, add, "Not that I'd ever buy Hannah flowers, anyway. At least not for romantic reasons—because there is, for the eleventy millionth time, nothing going on between us."

There can't be.

It's as simple as that.

Hannah is, hands down, the best person I know. She deserves to be with a great guy. No. The best, most terrific guy.

And that guy isn't me.

My life is a mess.

My body is falling apart.

If injuries don't end my career, being one year shy of thirty probably will.

I have no idea what I want to do with my life post-hockey.

I've never had a serious relationship.

I'm under water financially because I'm an idiot who got conned by two of my now former friends into investing in their startup. I'm not broke, but I'm not rolling in it, either. There's no way I can afford to buy my girl a freaking hockey stadium, that's for sure.

And the cherry on top of this trainwreck sundae is that I'm starting to realize I may not be fully over the death of my twin brother, Trevor, even though he's been gone more than half my life.

Why would anyone want to be with me? I've got nothing to offer.

"Okay, okay. I believe there's nothing going on with you guys," Fraser relents, only half-convincingly. He points to the time on the console display. "You should probably get going if you want to get to the store before it closes."

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Thanks for the lift."

I hold my hand out for our bro handshake. Fraser hooks his thumb against mine and clasps our palms together one, two, three times. "No problem. We'll stay in touch, yeah?"

"Of course. Oh, and one more thing," I say before getting out of the car. "No more grand romantic gestures."

Fraser smirks, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "I make no promises. Now go get your gir—er, groceries."

After dropping off my luggage and exchanging a few quick words with Katie and Chester—along with a promise to return quickly to get started on my Bolognese—I hurry over to the store a few blocks away.

After a few hours cooped up in a car, it feels good to be moving. The pain in my hip tends to get worse when I'm not active, which is why it hurts first thing in the morning when I wake up or after sitting for prolonged stretches of time, but I also can't push it too hard and overdo things, either.

It's early June, on the cusp of summer, and the first heat of the new season permeates in the air. It seems like everyone is out and about, enjoying the good weather. I smile and wave to at least half a dozen people I know, but I don't stop to chat with anyone. I'm determined not to let anything get in the way of surprising Hannah.

Because that's something friends do—they surprise each other.

The bell above the door jangles as I enter the store.

Doyle, the store owner, is standing at the checkout in his customary moss-green apron. Before he can open his mouth, I bring my fingers to my lips to prevent him from yelling out my name. He's in his late fifties and has a deep, booming voice, which he used to great effect as a radio announcer in his younger years. You can hear him talking all the way from the dairy section.

I mouth "Where's Hannah?" to him.

He beams at me like I just told him he'd won the lottery as he clutches his chest with one hand and points to the third aisle with the other.

"Thanks," I whisper and head that way.

I smile the instant I see Hannah inspecting something on the shelf at the far end of the aisle.

She looks great as always.

Tall and slender, with a willowy build and shiny dark-blonde hair that flows in loose waves down past her shoulders. She's wearing a pastel-pink boho-style blouse, light-wash denim jeans, and sandals.

Even though I'm standing too far away to see her face clearly, I've seen it so many times I can picture it clearly in my mind's eye. Her large and expressive soft-blue eyes, her flawless complexion, her striking cheekbones, and her naturally full lips that, when she smiles, light up her whole face.

Talk about a dream girl.

She's nothing short of exquisite, and she'll make someone the luckiest guy in the world someday.

I look down.

When did I pick up a can of Campbell's Chicken Corn Chowder?

And why am I squeezing it so hard my fingers feel like they're about to break off?

I put the soup back on the shelf.

My eyes drift back to Hannah. She picks up a jar and studies the label.

I get an idea.

She's not expecting me to be here, so I can make this moment extra special. I lightly jog up the next aisle to surprise her from the other end.

I sneak up as close as I can and say in a low, deep voice, "Ma'am. Please put your hands where I can see them and step away from the pasta sauce."

She spins around. "Culver! Oh my goodness. What are you doing here?"

She shoves the sauce back onto the shelf and throws her arms around me. I inhale the coconut smell that's so quintessentially her and hold her in my arms.

Mrs. Cohen wheels her cart around the corner, but when she sees us, she starts backing away. "I'm sorry, dears. Didn't mean to interrupt the lovebirds."

Before either one of us can correct her, she disappears around the corner.

"She moved pretty fast for a lady in her eighties," I say with a chuckle.

"That's nothing." We've stopped hugging, but Hannah is still holding my arm. "Mrs. Cohen talks even faster than she walks. I bet she's already telling someone in the produce section she saw us hugging."

I grin and let out a long breath. "It never stops, does it?"

Hannah knows what I mean—that everyone in Comfort Bay assumes we're a couple.

"No. It doesn't. Even the girls were on my case about it on our sunrise walk this morning."

"Must be something in the air. Fraser brought it up when he dropped me off."

"Fraser? Really?"

"Yep. Hand gestures were involved."

Hannah's eyes grow bigger.

"Clean ones," I say, then think about it for half a second. "Semi clean ones."

She laughs, and I take the opportunity to take a proper look at her. She looks good, but I can't help noticing the slight bags under her eyes.

I know she's been going nonstop with graduation stuff, not to mention college applications and sports finals, on top of running her shop and all the usual day-to-day stuff involved in keeping two teenagers alive and well.

I've been worried about her. I hate that I've been too far away to do anything.

Well, that changes right now.

I'm here for the entire summer, and I'm going to make sure Hannah gets some rest and lets me pamper her for a bit.

"So," she says, looking up at me with those large, almond-shaped eyes. "What are you doing here two days early, and what do you have against"—she retrieves the jar from the shelf—"this pasta sauce?"

"I wanted to surprise you." I smile. "And I wanted to see the kids before they left."

"They knew you were coming?"

Nodding, I reply, "Yeah. I offered to make Nonna's Bolognese in exchange for their silence."

Hannah laughs again, and she's got one of those perfect laughs. Not too loud. Not too shrill. Just the right amount of joyous. "Right. I'm sure that was a tough ask."

"Hey. You're not that bad at cooking."

"Hey. I am. My only skills in the kitchen seem to be either burning food or undercooking it. I've subjected those two to years of food-related trauma."

"Hey. They never went hungry."

She opens her mouth to argue.

"You will not out hey me on this," I interject, not giving her the chance. "And to your second question." Our fingers brush as I take the sauce from her, scanning the back label. "Cheap ingredients and filled with plenty of nasty additives. I can make a way better-tasting and healthier sauce from scratch. Trust me. Why were you looking at this anyway?"

"I wanted to make them something special for their last meal."

"Oh." That makes total sense. I don't want to overstep, so I check, "Are you okay if I make them something special for their last meal?"

Her clear-blue eyes light up. "That would be amazing. Not only are you unlikely to over- or undercook anything, your food will also have the one thing mine never does."

"And what's that?"

"Flavor."

I roll my eyes and take the basket from her. She's not the best at cooking, but she's not as bad as she's making herself out to be.

As if reading my thoughts, she asks, "Remember the time you came over for one of our binge-watching marathons, and I ruined mac and cheese?"

On second thought, maybe she is as bad as she thinks she is. Still, I say, "In Italy, they'd call it macaroni al dente."

"Well, in Italy, they must all be idiots if they go around eating uncooked pasta."

We chat away as I collect the ingredients I need for the meal.

I like the way our friendship has evolved over the years. It feels natural.

We've known each other all our lives, and for the longest time, I felt protective of her and Katie and Chester.

Even when my family moved two towns over to Starlight Cove after Trevor died, our families remained close.

I always kept an extra-close eye on Hannah. I couldn't imagine losing Ma at thirteen, and my heart broke for the kids who were even younger. Chester reminds me so much of Trevor. Maybe that's why I've always had a soft spot for him.

When I went away to play in the juniors, I made sure to keep in touch with Hannah—mainly through texts and social media.

But it was after she finished high school, and we were at a birthday party for one of my brothers, that I realized just how grown up she had become. Despite there being a four year age gap between us, she was way more mature than her years.

Hannah has always been super organized and structured. She loves lists and planning everything out. Part of that is borne of necessity—raising two teenagers is hard work—but part of that is innate. It's who she is, and I love that about her.

Her friendship really is the most precious thing in my life.

It doesn't take long for me to gather everything I need to make dinner.

"Hey, Doyle," I say as I place the basket on the counter.

"Hello, Culver. It's good to see you." His normally booming voice dips. "Even if the season didn't end on the best note. So sorry about that."

"Thanks. There's always next year."

He starts ringing up our total. "Exactly. So, are you back for the whole summer?"

"Yep. The plan is to lay low and spend some quality time with Hannah."

Doyle's eyes shift to Hannah, then back to me. "That's what I assumed. It's all Hannah's been talking about these past few weeks."

Hannah blushes. "He's exaggerating."

"No. I'm not. I spoke to you not less than twenty-four hours ago right in this very same spot, when you said you didn't know what you'd do with yourself if?—"

"Is the Festival of Living Pictures happening this year?" she asks over him, which is impressive since Doyle is a hard man to speak over.

"It is. Middle of August." He carefully places the mushrooms into the brown paper bag and then looks up at me. "We'd love it if you could come. Or, better yet, participate."

"Sure. I'll have to make sure I don't have training. Otherwise, I'm in."

"Wonderful."

Hannah clears her throat.

"Yes, yes, you can participate, too." Doyle turns to her and forces a smile. "But if you're busy, I understand."

"I'll have to double check, too, since my schedule is filled with all sorts of important things, but I'd love a chance to?—"

Doyle's expression sours. "Make up for what you did?"

Oh, no. Not this again.

I exhale loudly. "Doyle, it happened three years ago. Are you still not over it?"

"She flinched!" he cries, loud enough for everyone in the store to hear, waving a bunch of cilantro at us.

"Put the herbs down," I reason. "And lower your voice, please."

Hannah straightens. "Also, for the record. I did not flinch."

"You did. Mrs. Walsh saw you."

"My nose was itchy. What was I supposed to do?"

"Aha! So you admit it."

"Doyle. Hannah. We're all adults here. We cannot seriously be arguing about Hannah's nose possibly moving three years ago."

Doyle bristles. "I'm sorry if this seems trivial to you, Culver. But some of us take pride in our artistic performances."

I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. "You recreate artwork by standing still. I didn't realize that being motionless qualified as an artistic performance."

"You realize you just totally dissed every single housewife across every single Housewives franchise," Hannah whispers to me, and I do my best not to laugh and irritate Doyle even more.

"What did she say?" More accusatory cilantro waving. "Did she just admit it?"

"I admit to nothing," Hannah remarks with a cheerful smile, clearly enjoying teasing Doyle.

Admittedly, everyone enjoys teasing Doyle.

In a town filled with busybodies, he's the busiest body of them all. In addition to running the grocery store, he's also the town selectman and the self-appointed overseer of nearly everything that happens in Comfort Bay. His heart is usually in the right place, but he can be too controlling at times.

And by at times, I mean, all the time.

He finishes ringing up our groceries and announces the total.

I pull out my wallet.

Hannah reaches for her purse.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

"What are you doing?" She gently elbows my arm out of the way. "I'm paying for this."

"No. Let me. Please."

"Absolutely not. You're my guest. And besides, you're cooking the meal. I can't let you pay for the ingredients."

"But if you cook the meal, then we'll all pay for it."

She smiles but doesn't relent. "I'm not letting you pay, Culver. End of story."

The person behind us in line clears their throat.

We turn around at the same time. It's Mr. Brennan, Comfort Bay's oldest resident at ninety-seven years young.

"I don't mind you two having a lover's quarrel, but Family Feud is starting in ten minutes. Do you think you'll be much longer?"

I take advantage of Hannah being distracted by Mr. Brennan and hand Doyle my credit card.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Brennan," Hannah says. "I'll just pay up, and then you'll be in your armchair watching Steve Harvey in no time."

"Done!" I say with a triumphant grin as Doyle hands back my card.

Hannah snaps her head between us a few times. Her eyes narrow. Her voice lowers. "Traitors. Both of you."

"Serves you right for being a flincher," Doyle shoots back, and I wish I could say he was joking around, but nope, the grudge he's harboring is real.

I scoop up the brown paper bag. "Thanks, Doyle. I'll check my schedule to see if I'm free for the festival." I turn around. "Sorry for the hold up, Mr. Brennan."

Once we're outside, Hannah links her arm through mine. "Thank you for paying."

"It's no problem."

"Are you sure?"

We turn to look at each other.

She's nibbling on her bottom lip, and I know what she's referring to. "Yes, I'm sure. I may have squandered more money than I want to think about, but I can still afford some ingredients for a meal."

"And disposable razors."

"Excuse me?"

"You paid for my razors, too."

"In that case, hopefully they were the cheap ones, otherwise that will put a dent in my finances."

I smile to let her know I'm kidding.

We start walking back to her place, still arm-in-arm.

Doyle can be a huge pain in the you-know-what, but one thing he said has stuck with me—that Hannah seemed excited about me coming here for the summer.

It's probably nothing.

Then again, it's a similar sign to the one Fraser pointed out.

And I did notice her cheeks get a little redder when Doyle said it.

But no.

Wishful thinking, man.

A girl like Hannah Cooper is well and truly out of my league. No point in even going there.

"You didn't squander the money." Hannah's soft voice pokes into the silence. She latches onto my arm a little tighter but keeps looking straight ahead. "You acted with your heart and helped people who didn't deserve your help."

I breathe in deeply. "Thanks, Hannah."

She's right. I did act from my heart when I should've been smarter and used my head. Because I'm a big dummy like that. Guess I didn't inherit my grandfather's investment genes.

"Hey. What did one earthquake say to another?" I ask, changing the subject.

"I don't know."

"It's not my fault."

Hannah laughs, shaking her head, treating me to another whiff of coconut. "That's one of your worst ones yet."

"But you laughed, so is it so bad that it's almost good?" I ask hopefully.

"Maybe. I'll think about it."

"That's good enough for me."

I don't remember when so bad they're almost good jokes became a thing we do, but it is.

Hannah stops walking. "Incoming."

I follow Hannah's gaze across the street and take a breath to steel myself.

"The REDs," we say at the same time as a brigade of gray and blue-haired women march toward us.

RED stands for Retired and Extremely Dangerous, and it's a very appropriate moniker. They remind me a bit of Hannah and her girlfriends, with their frenetic energy and million-miles-an-hour talking. But, like, in fifty years.

They're led by their self-appointed leader, my grandmother Geneva—but everyone calls her Jenny—and she's ably supported by Hannah's grandma Veronica—or as she prefers to be called, Vonny.

I run a tally in my head as they get closer.

Five, six, seven.

Okay. There are seven of them, versus two of us. Maybe they'll go easy?

Nonna greets me with a beaming smile. "Ciao, mio tesoro."

She gives me a hug, kisses me twice, then hugs me some more, gazing up at me with nothing but love in her eyes.

To a normal person, Nonna's greeting might seem excessive.

Let me rephrase that, Nonna's greeting is excessive, but I wouldn't change it for anything. She's my favorite pint-sized dynamo.

I hug Hannah's grandmother next, and then, noticing the expectant looks on the other ladies' faces, I hug Catherine, Meryl, Joyce, Dorothy, and Phyllis in turn.

"Such good manners," Catherine says to Joyce, who nods in agreement.

Hannah starts telling them about Doyle still harping on about her alleged flinch—taking the opportunity to deny it yet again—which sets the REDs off about all the other things Doyle has done lately that have ticked them off.

It's a substantial list.

As Hannah and I listen, I notice that Meryl and Phyllis have drifted away from the main group and have started their own conversation. I only manage to catch fragments of it.

"I don't understand why they don't just announce it already. Look at them. They're so adorable together…"

"I know. He's so handsome, and is there a sweeter girl in the world than Hannah?"

"…I think it's called a soft launch."

"What's a soft launch?"

"All the very cool kids are doing it these days. Apparently no one announces they're together anymore, instead they're all casual about it."

"How do you know?"

"My granddaughter Maisy did it with her new boyfriend…"

I discreetly tap Hannah on the back and flick my eyes over to Phyllis and Meryl.

She grins, then brings her hand up to cover her mouth. "Are they talking about us?" I nod. "Do they realize we can hear them?"

"I don't think so."

Hannah giggles, and I decide to have some fun and wrap my arm around her shoulder the way a boyfriend might to really give them something to talk about.

The main conversation, as well as the side conversation Meryl and Phyllis are having, comes to a stop, replaced by head-tilts and approving smiles.

"I knew it," Nonna whispers to Vonny, whose eyes are lit up like Christmas lights.

"We should get going," I say, lifting the grocery bag. "I've got a meal to cook."

"And he cooks," one of the REDs says, impressed.

"And have you seen his arms?"

"I may have cataracts, but yes, I've seen his arms."

"Look lower. See the way those track pants cling to his rear end?"

"Hey, that's my grandson you're talking about."

Hannah leans in closer to me. "I love their lack of spatial awareness."

"Or volume control," I add, making Hannah giggle.

As we wrap up, I give Nonna another hug. "I'll drop by and see you soon."

"I look forward to it."

We go our separate ways, and because I have a feeling seven sets of eyes are on us—and possibly on my rear end—I bundle Hannah in nice and close by my side.

Her body slides into place, fitting perfectly against mine, which feels…nice.

I mean, convenient.

It's convenient for the ruse I'm trying to pull on the REDs.

Hannah glances over her shoulder. "Yep. They're all looking."

I grin. "They're so predictable."

I keep Hannah tucked in by my side for the rest of the walk back to her place.

I'm eager to cook up a big meal, spend the evening with her, Chester, and Katie, and hear all about everyone's summer plans.