“You would make a terrible detective,” I tell Ollie as I stop in front of room 413B. “I gotta go, Olls. Have a good night, and don’t install any cameras. Fallon will punch you and no one would blame her.”
“So you do think it’s Fallon!” he crows, delighted.
“Not at all. But if she finds out you installed cameras, she’ll punch you.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I don’t even need a camera. The strawberries are proof enough.”
Hanging up, I shake my head. My teammates are nuts. But I’d almost rather be back in Maryland dealing with Ollie’s bullshit than standing here at Claire’s door, about to knock. I messaged her earlier, but she didn’t answer. I have no doubt I’m the last person she wants to see—when am I not—but she left one of her camera lenses down at the dolphin enclosure, so I’m here to return it. I know fuck-all about camera equipment, but I do know it’s expensive.
Before my knuckles meet the wood, her door swings open to reveal a blonde with a pissed off look on her face. “Oh, good,” she says, eyeing me up. “She can be your problem now. I’m spending the night at Kinsey’s,” the blonde calls over her shoulder, presumably to Claire. “I’d say I’ll be back when you’ve stopped being a bitch, but we both know that will never happen, and my stuff’s here, so I have to come back eventually.”
Looking right over the blonde’s head, I see an arm lift, a hand balled into a fist, and an extended middle finger.
Yep, I’m definitely at the right room.
The woman who must be Claire’s roommate ducks out, and I step inside, letting the door close behind me.
“What a bitch,” Claire murmurs.
“No kidding,” I agree, realizing my mistake as Claire lets out a spine-tingling scream.
“Holy fuck! Who are—oh, my god. Of course you’re here. Of fucking course.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me and I?—”
“Now is not a good time,” she says. “Can you just?—”
Her room is so small that after taking two steps inside, I’m basically in the middle of it. I’d intended to drop off the piece she left behind and then be on my way. Okay, that’s a lie. I was kind of hoping to stick around for a bit, maybe talk her into sharing more fries with me at Smitty’s.Yes, she hates my guts, but that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should. And ok, two days ago it drove me crazy. But now, my brain is much more intrigued by the knowledge that Claire Fowler thinks I’m hot. Her admittance has been running on a loop in my mind for the past forty-odd hours.
But now there’s only one thought in my brain: Holy shit, that’s a nasty sunburn.
“Ouch,” I say, letting out a low whistle. “Do you have any aloe?”
“No,” she practically growls. The woman is like a feral cat on the best of days, so with a burn like that, I shouldn’t be shocked that she’s extra angry.
“I’ve got some,” I say, shrugging off my backpack and opening one of the pouches.
“I’m fine,” she says, barely turning her head toward me. I’m not sure if that’s because she doesn’t want to look at me or if it hurts to twist her neck. Probably both.
“You are obviously not fine,” I say. “Jesus, Claire, you look like a damn lobster.”
“Oh, my god. Do I really?” she asks in a monotone voice. “I had no idea.”
Plucking the after-sun lotion from my bag, I wave it at her. “Found it. You can keep it in the fridge so it feels nice and cool on your skin, but you don’t have to.”
“Thanks. You can set it on my nightstand.”
My brain should be pouncing on the fact that she just thanked me, but instead, it’s fixating on something else. “You want me to leave it on your nightstand? How the hell are you going to get it on your back?”
She looks at me, her eyes defiant, despite the fact that she’s clearly in need of help. “I’ll figure it out.”
“How? Oh, wait. Let me guess. Your sweetheart of a roommate is going to come to your rescue?”
I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes bore into me with even more intensity. “Something like that.”
“You’re unfuckingbelievable, you know that, right?” I ask. It’s not like me to lose my temper, but Claire Fowler is the most frustrating person I have ever met. And given the hockey roster, that’s really saying something. “You hate me so much that you’d rather lie here in pain and end up with fucking blisters than let me slather a little lotion on you? Damn, that’s a lot of anger. And you’re suffering for no reason.” If I thought my irritation or my logic would have any effect whatsoever, I was wrong.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” she asks. “Why does it matter to you that I’m lying here in agony? It’s my own damn fault.”
