“You’re not even gonna help me pick something?”
“You always look nice.” He shrugs.
“Wow,” I deadpan. “That felt deeply brotherly and not at all like you’re trying to make me shut up faster.”
His mouth quirks. “Ten minutes,” he repeats, and turns to leave.
“Thanks, Dom,” I call after him. “Really feeling the support system here.”
When the door clicks shut, I exhale slowly and press my hands to my face. I need to calm down. It’s just a welcome party.
No, not for me.
God forbid anyone rolls out a red carpet for the girl who moved across the damn country to start her life over.
This one’s for a goalie—a new teammate transferring onto my brother’s team. A guy I’ve never met. A whole house of guys I’ve never met, actually.
Because apparently, the best way to break in your new city is to be the girl hovering in the corner while a pack of NHL players drink, shout, and chest bump like it’s the playoffs. Love that for me.
I moved here two days ago from our hometown in Pennsylvania. Graduated with a public administration degree I didn’t even want, packed up my life, and left the polite, clean-cut, high-expectation life of a senator’s daughter behind to become a florist.
Now I’m in a Miami mansion, living with my pro athlete brother, surrounded by boxes I haven’t unpacked.
And tonight, I get to put on a smile and pretend I belong in a room full of multi-million-dollar athletes.
I glance at the bed again, anxiety pooling in my stomach.
I could stay up here, get under the covers, claim period cramps. I could blame an allergic reaction to testosterone. But eventually, I’ll need food. And water.
My phone buzzes from somewhere under the pile of clothes on the bed. It’s muffled but unmistakable.
I turn my head toward the sound, halfway through pulling my top off. I let it hang off my neck as I scramble, tossing clothes off the bed like I’m digging for treasure.
“Oh my god, where…” I mutter, shoving aside a hoodie, and a bra I haven’t worn in three months.
There.
I dive for it like it’s the last slice of cake on earth. My fingers finally wrap around it before I pull it out and unlock it instantly.It’s him.
Ghost:How’s dress-up going, Bunny?
I stare at the message, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from smiling.
Bunny. He’s been calling me that since the night we met—last year’s Halloween party. Where I drunkenly gave my number to a man in a Ghostface mask with a voice like gravel and sin.
No names and no faces. Just me in a cursed bunny costume, and a forearm three times the size of mine that I wrote my number on with eyeliner. I wrote my actual number, not the number of a pizza place like he’d assumed.
I left that party, cursing myself for not bringing a waterproof eyeliner and wondering if the one I’d used instead would smudge and ruin any chances of him texting me.
It didn’t.
Later that night, I was lying in bed, still tipsy, still buzzing from the heat of his hand on my skin when he got too close, still thinking about the way he said things that made my knees go soft, when my phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.
I still remember every single word: “Large Alfredo pizza. Extra chicken. Buffalo wings. Garlic sauce on the side. Unless this actually is the killer bunny from the party. Then skip the garlic sauce.”
I remember sitting up so fast I nearly knocked over my lamp. I remember staring at the text for a full minute. But I replied. And I haven’t stopped since.
Ten months.
