Page 96 of Pucking Rebound
“He’s a tax consultant and the most boring man I’ve ever met. He can fuck, sure, but everything else about him is beige. I need excitement in and out of the sack.”
“I’m going to the Eagles game on New Year’s Eve. Come with me.”
She tilts her head to the side inquisitively. “Do you get to go into the locker rooms?”
“When I need to speak to Wade, sometimes I do.”
“Great, you need to speak to Wade before the game.” She claps her hands together excitedly. “Oh my God, we’re gonna be hockey wives together.”
Chuckling, I reply, “We are not going to be hockey wives, Piper.” I push myself up from the sofa. “I need to pee.”
“Don’t be long. I have more questions.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“I’m not answering them.”
“You are such a spoilsport.”
“I’m being realistic. We’re just fucking.” I stretch my legs out. “I work for the Eagles. We aren’t allowed to have relationships with the players or any other member of staff.”
“You’re only there for another few months. What then?”
“He’s my brother’s best friend.” I sigh. “And, anyway, it’s a rebound thing. Nothing more.” I’m lying to myself, and she knows it.
I walk out of Piper’s living room into the bathroom.
“You can’t fool me, Gladiola-Grace Ramsay,” she shouts.
I can’t.
I’m as transparent as a windowpane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jordy
It’s been the worst Christmas Day since dinosaurs walked the earth.
I had been dreading it, and it was everything I knew it would be; boring and awkward.
My mother has made at least a dozen comments about Sienna and me getting back together. She’s clearly delirious because that is never going to happen.
Spending the day with Sienna and her parents as well as my own, without my sisters, has almost driven me to drink. Almost.
But I haven’t had a sip because I’m driving.
The sooner I leave, the faster I can drive home and maybe even call Lola.
Laughter floats down the hall from the drawing room—the one reserved for special occasions, like today.
I slipped away after dessert, retreating to the kitchen to catch up with Mr. and Mrs. Sommerville, my parents' head chef and housekeeper, who have been married for over thirty years and have worked for my family even longer. They don’t have children of their own, so I always bring them gifts at Christmas. In many ways, they helped raise me and my sisters. My parents weregreat, but always busy and not around much. The Sommervilles always were, and I love them like grandparents.
As I push open the drawing room door, I’m immediately greeted by a wave of cinnamon and orange—the fragrance stirs childhood memories of excited mornings spent with my sisters.
“Ah, there you are, Darling.” My mother beams at me. “Sienna and I were just talking about the Archer’s New Year’s Eve ball and what time you’ll be arriving after the game.”
