Page 33 of Center Ice
“I know when you said I could call you if I needed anything, you meant about Graham?—”
“No, I meant what I said. If you needanything.”
“What if I just need a quick delivery?”
“Of what?” I ask.
“Ibuprofen?”
“Are you sick?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Why is she being so vague? “What does that mean?”
“Well, I get sick like this once a month.”
Ahhh, okay. As someone who grew up with two sisters, this is becoming very clear. “Understood. I’m coming from the Seaport, so give me, like, twenty minutes, maybe more if there’s traffic.”
“No, Drew,” she says, “if you’re out doing something, I don’t want to take you away from that. I only asked because you live five minutes from me.”
It hits me then: there’s nothing I could be out doing that I wouldn’t drop for her. But I can’t tell her that without her thinking I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy. She’s the mother of my child, and unless I want to screw things up with Graham, that’s all she should be. I know this. I know that the responsible thing is to not get involved with her in any way. But when I’m around her, all that flies out the window, because Iwanther.
I want her just as much as I did my senior year of college, and possibly more. Because I thought she was amazing then, but the woman she’s grown into—the patience she has with Graham, the sacrifices she’s made to raise him, the business she’s built…a woman like her needs a man who can commit. A man who is dependable, and around a hell of a lot more than I am. She deserves someone like that, and for the first time in my life, I want to be that person for someone else. Not because it benefits me, but because it’s what she needs.
“I’m already on my way. See you soon.” I hang up on her before she can object anymore. I know what it took for her to call me—she must not have any other options right now—and I’m not giving up my chance to see her, especially since I’m guessing this means Graham’s in bed already, and she’s alone. As much as I loved spending time with Graham the other night and am looking forward to seeing him again, the thought of having more time alone with Audrey doesn’t feel like it’ll ever lose its appeal.
I take the elevator down to the bottom of Colt’s building and ask the doorman to point me in the direction of the closest pharmacy, which turns out to be just around the corner.
There, I grab some ibuprofen, some stick-on heating pads, and three pints of ice cream in a variety of flavors. And when the car drops me off at her doorstep, I practically run up the steps of her brownstone because I’m so damn eager to see her.
She answers the door in sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, under which she does not seem to be wearing a bra. But I force myself to focus my eyes up on her face, rather than on the stiff peaks of her nipples, because I’m trying not to be an asshole.
“Thank you so much,” she sighs, leaning against the door frame like it’s taking effort to stand.
“C’mon,” I say, sweeping my hand forward like I’m gesturing her through the door, “let’s get you patched up.”
She furrows her brows. “Patched up?”
“Yeah, I got you some of those stick-on heating pads, because I hear heat works well for cramps,” I say, thinking of all the times Missy would curl up with one of those microwavable heating pads to help with her cramps. “Between that, the ibuprofen, and the variety of Ben & Jerry’s options I have in this bag, you’ll be feeling much better.”
“You want…to come in?”
Even though she’d asked about a “delivery,” the idea that she just wants the supplies and not my company hits me right in my gut.
“You were just using me as a delivery service? Ouch.”
“Actually, I thought you were busy and were just doing me a favor by dropping off some ibuprofen. I figured you’d want to go back to whatever you were doing.”
Don’t make any jokes aboutwhoyou want to be doing right now, I have to remind myself. Every time I’m in her presence, all I can think about is the last time I saw her before the draft. The way her skin felt beneath my hands, the sound of my name rolling off her lips, her grunts of pleasure, the way her nails felt as they raked along my shoulders—all of it was better than I’d imagined, and I’d imagined it plenty.
“I’d rather hang out with you, if you’re open to company.”
She sighs, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to send me away. “Well, I guess you did bring enough ice cream for two, so come on in.” She turns and walks into the house, leaving me to shut the door. I almost forget to lock it, though, because I’m so focused on the way her ass looks in those sweats as she walks into her kitchen.
I follow her, taking in the terracotta patterned tile, the dark cabinets, and the stone countertops of the room, with its crisp walls and black-framed windows. “Your house looks like one of thoseafterpictures you see on social media—you know, like when a designer posts them?”
“Well, since this is basically what Jules and I do for a living, it’d be sad if our house didn’t represent our style, right?”
