I nod, suddenly overwhelmed by the pressures of my job. "I will be making mouth molds until my fingers ache.”
"I'll drive you," he interrupts. “Then I’ll actually get out of the house.”
"You don't have to?—"
"Lena." His voice is gentle but firm. "We're friends now, right? Friends help each other out."
Friends. The word feels both comforting and somehow inadequate, but I nod. "Okay. Friends."
He smiles, a shadow of his usual brightness but real. "Goodnight, friend."
As he disappears down the hallway, I'm left wondering how, in just two days, Alder Stag has transformed from a hockey star and convenient ally to... whatever he is becoming to me.
CHAPTER 11
LENA
Morning bringsthe aroma of coffee again, but this time, it's my doing. I've beaten Alder to the kitchen and taken the liberty of brewing a pot strong enough to cut through what I assume will be his substantial hangover. I'm midway through making cinnamon toast—a comfort food I discovered he keeps ingredients for—when he stumbles in, looking like death warmed over.
"Morning, sunshine," I say, unable to suppress a grin at his disheveled state. His hair is sticking up at improbable angles, his eyes are bloodshot, and he's squinting against the morning light filtering through the kitchen windows.
"Is it necessary to be so cheerful?" he grumbles, accepting the coffee I push into his hands with obvious gratitude.
"Drink that. Then water. Then more coffee." I slide a plate of cinnamon toast toward him. "And eat something."
He raises an eyebrow. "Bossy."
"Doctor's orders."
"You're a dentist."
"Close enough."
He takes a bite of toast, closing his eyes in apparent appreciation. "This is good."
"It's just cinnamon toast."
"Still good.” He takes another bite, then looks at me over the rim of his mug. “God, I miss bread. Where’d you get this?”
I shrug, oddly embarrassed. “Found a loaf in the freezer. I didn’t even think about diet restrictions.”
He chews and swallows, and I notice again the muscles in his throat. “Well, I don’t have any restrictions this summer.” He nods, then winces at the movement. "Sorry about last night. I don't usually drink like that."
"Don't apologize." I sit across from him with my coffee. "We've both had a rough couple of days."
"Still planning on going in today?" He looks dubious about his ability to function.
"Absolutely. And so are you." I stand, retrieving a bottle of ibuprofen from my purse. "Take two of these, shower, and you'll feel semi-human again."
He accepts the pills with a look of amused resignation. "You're not going to let me wallow, are you?"
"Nope. Wallowing is for tomorrow. Today, we're being productive adults."
"Why tomorrow?"
"Because I have a fitting scheduled for Tucker, I'll be too busy to stop you from feeling sorry for yourself."
This earns me a genuine laugh, followed by a grimace as the sound apparently reverberates through his aching head. "Fair enough."
