Those Three Little Words

The front door clicks shut, followed by the sound of the lock being put into place. I glance over at my nightstand clock and see that it’s nearly one.

I’ve drifted in and out of sleep for the past few hours but woke up the moment I heard the front door open. The boys won tonight, bringing them that much closer to a spot in the playoffs. Unfortunately, with how rough their second half of the season has been, they’re not going to win the division, but they’re a possible shoo-in for the wild card. I’m sure it’s not their preferred way to make it to the playoffs, but at least there’s a chance.

Eli’s feet shuffle down the hallway, and he slowly opens the door, peeking in.

“Hey,” I say so he doesn’t think he has to be super quiet.

“You’re up. It’s late, Penny.”

“I’ve been in and out of sleep.” I press my hand to my chest. “Been dealing with some serious heartburn lately.”

“Really? You said everything was good,” he says in a concerned voice as he comes over to my side of the bed and takes a seat.

“It’s heartburn, Eli. It’s not like I’m bleeding from the ears.”

“Well, do you need anything?” He glances behind me. “I read about how heartburn can hit you hard in the first trimester and leading into the second. You should be propping yourself up on pillows. Also, do you have any yogurt? That might help. Or some sugar-free gum. Want me to go grab you some? There’s a convenience store around the corner that’s still open. I can run to it if you want.”

I place my hand on his arm and shake my head. “No, that’s okay, really. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, but thank you. You must be tired.”

He pulls on the back of his neck. “Adrenaline’s still kicking me. It was a battle tonight.”

“I saw that. Congrats on the win. You’re a clear favorite to win the wild card.”

“Three more games and we’ll find out.” He lets out a deep breath. “It’s been a fucking year. I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but I’m ready for it to be over. I kind of wish we could just win the cup now and then go up to Banff. I could use the relaxation.”

“You have quite a journey to win the cup. Have you forgotten the two-month-long process of the playoffs?”

“Don’t remind me,” he groans. “We have a long way to go, but it will be worth it.” He lifts his duffel bag on the bed and says, “Now that you’re awake, do you want your gift?”

“Uh, obviously.”

He chuckles. “Okay and remember, not quite rabbit turd, but not much better.”

“Expectations are at an all-time low.” I hold my hands out in front of me.

He unzips his bag, reaches in, and then places something in my hands. When I look down, I see a candy bar, but not just any candy bar, a Snickers bar, limited edition cinnamon bun flavor.

“I have no idea if it’s good, but when I was getting myself a Gatorade in the hotel gift shop, I saw it and thought you had to try it. I truly hope it’s good.”

“This was so thoughtful,” I say as I lean forward and wrap my arms around him. One of his arms goes to my back, and when I give him a squeeze, he does the same. It’s brief, and there’s absolutely nothing romantic to the hug, but for that moment, when the palm of his hand is stretched out over my back, and his fresh soap scent is flooding my space, I have this pang of awareness. The same type of awareness I had when I first saw him at the bar on his birthday. This masculine, charming, amazingly smelling man is talking to me. Well, not just talking to me anymore, but giving me gifts because when he saw it, he thought of me.

It’s so kind.

It’s so crazy.

It’s not something I’d ever expect, so when I pull away, I feel an overwhelming sense of emotion start to tighten my throat.

Don’t cry.

Please don’t cry.

Not over a candy bar. I’ve already humiliated myself enough.

Keep it together.

But when I look up at him, and our eyes lock, I know there’s no way I can stop it from happening.

My eyes well, and immediately, he takes my hand in his.

“Don’t cry. It’s really just a stupid gesture. Nothing to get emotional about.”

“Too . . . late,” I say as I wave my hand in front of my face. “God, this is humiliating. I honestly can’t control it.”

He lifts his other hand to my face and gently wipes away the tears that have fallen down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be uncomfortable for you.”

“It’s fine,” he says.

Trying to make things not so awkward anymore, I hold up the candy bar and say, “Want to try it?”

“Right now?”

“We’re both awake. Why not?”

He cutely shrugs. “Sure. But don’t feel like you need to share it with me.”

“I’m not going to sit here in my bed, feeling more bloated than ever, and eat a candy bar in front of you without letting you have any.” I tear open the packaging and give it a sniff. The smell makes me wince. “Maybe it tastes better than it smells.”

“Does it smell bad?” I hold it out to him, and he sniffs. “Jesus, that doesn’t smell appetizing. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, but only one way to find out.” I break off a piece for both of us. I hand him his chunk, and I hold up mine. “Here’s to the playoffs.” We clink our chunks together, and then both put them in our mouths.

I chew.

He chews.

And then we both stare at each other in horror.

I sprint to the toilet, where I immediately throw up while I hear him behind me. He spits into the trash can and then bends down next to me, where he holds my hair back for me.

“Christ, I didn’t know it was going to be that bad. I’m so sorry.”

I’m going to tell you right now, throwing up into a toilet is probably the least attractive thing you could do, let alone in front of hockey’s Prince Charming. Yet I can’t stop myself as I heave wave after wave until nothing is left inside me. And he sits there, listening to every last part of it. He continues to hold my hair with one hand while gently rubbing my back with the other one.

“Are you okay?” I nod and rest my head on my arm that’s draped over the toilet seat. Don’t worry, with my nausea lately, I’ve been swiping it with a Lysol wipe after every time I use it for this exact reason.

“Yes,” I say before slowly lifting up and wiping under my eyes. “I’d, uh, like to say, the candy wasn’t throw-up worthy, and the scene that just unfolded was more of a pregnancy reaction rather than a normal human reaction. Just need to make it clear, I’m not this dramatic about food.”

“So you don’t throw up when something doesn’t taste good to you?”

“Nope, not a normal occurrence.”

He slowly nods. “Good to know.” Then he turns fully to me and asks, “Are you seriously okay? The last thing I wanted to do was make you throw up.”

“I know, and the gift was super thoughtful. I think we blame this one on the Snickers, not on you.”

“I can take that.” He stands and then lends out his hand to help me up. I take it slow, just making sure I’m okay, and when I don’t feel my stomach roil, I walk over to the sink where I load my toothbrush with toothpaste.

He does the same.

And together, we brush our teeth.

And it feels . . . familiar. Like we’ve done this at least a dozen times when, in fact, we have not. We’ve never brushed our teeth together. We’ve always taken turns in the bathroom.

I glance at him in the mirror and find him studying me. Through a mouthful of toothpaste, I ask, “What?”

He smirks over his toothbrush. “Just can’t believe the first thing I do when I come home from a long road trip is make you throw up. What kind of friend am I?”

I spit out my toothpaste into the sink. “Clearly, not a good one.” I rinse my mouth, and so does he. We set our toothbrushes in the holder, and then I turn to him.

I don’t know what takes over me, call it the hormones or the fact that someone is here, and it feels comforting, but I step up to him and once again, loop my arms around his waist. This time, he returns the hug with both arms, and we stand there, in the bathroom, hugging each other. For quite a few seconds before I pull away.

“It really was thoughtful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry it made you puke.”

I shrug. “A lot of things make me nauseous, might as well add that to the list.”

And then I move past him and back to the bed. He goes to the bathroom and finishes getting ready. By the time he’s plugged his phone into the charger, I feel the heaviness in my eyes.

He scoots under the covers and faces me. His body heat warms the bed, something I’ve actually missed.

“You’re tired,” he says.

I nod. “The sleep is taking over me. Are you still pumped up with adrenaline?”

“Had a mild spike with that whole throwing-up situation, but I’ve calmed down. You sure you’re good with me sleeping here?”

I nod and yawn at the same time. “It’s nice. You make the bed all toasty and warm. Missed it while you were gone . . . and well not really talking to me.”

“Hey,” he says softly. “You were the one not talking to me.”

“I think we both weren’t talking.” I snuggle into my pillow. “But we’re talking now.”

“We are.” And then he reaches out and pushes a loose strand of my hair around my ear.

My eyes part just in time to connect with his. His finger drags across my cheek tenderly, and he says, “Good night, Penny.”

Almost breathlessly, I answer back, “Good night.”

And then he closes his eyes, leaving me with an elevated feeling as my pulse picks up.

What was with that touch? Did he mean to do that? Was it a loving touch or a pity touch because I threw up?

No. We’re here for the baby. Plain and simple.

Nothing else. My pregnancy brain needs to take a time-out and go to bed.

Everything will be just fine in the morning.

“HEY,” Eli says, poking his head in the bathroom where I’m carefully straightening my hair. Day off means I get to spend time doing something I wouldn’t normally do in the morning when I have to go to work.

“Hey, I didn’t think you’d be home so early from your morning skate.”

“We’re trying to rest our legs more.” He nods at me. “What are you doing?”

“Straightening my hair.” I give him a once-over. “Why are you wearing jeans?”

He chuckles. “What should I be wearing?”

“I don’t know, sweatpants? That’s what you normally wear. Are you going to go run some errands? Do professional hockey players even do errands? Pacey never talks about it, so I can’t be sure. Do you have an assistant who does everything for you?”

“I run my own errands. But that’s not why I’m wearing jeans.”

I glance down at them again and then nod in understanding. “Ah, a new pair, wearing them in around the house.”

He presses his hand to his forehead. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Why do you assume I’m doing everything other than what I actually want to do?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug while combing one of the final sections of my hair to straighten. “I ramble and talk a lot. You should know that by now.”

“I do.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m wearing jeans because I was hoping I could take you to lunch.”

I pause and turn toward him, hair in the straightener. “You want to take me to lunch?”

“Unless you have other plans.”

“I don’t. But why do you want to take me to lunch? Do you need to tell me something, and breaking the news over a soup and salad combo seems like the better thing to do? If so, please don’t take me out in public to break the news to me. You know how emotional I am right now.”

He places his hands on his hips as his head falls forward. “I just want to spend some time with you as a friend. That’s all. There’s nothing behind the request, just wanting to take a friend out to lunch.”

“Oh.” I chuckle and then face the mirror again. “Well, if that’s all, you should have just led with that instead of creating all of this nonsense.”

“You were the one creating nonsense. I didn’t even have a chance to get a word in.”

“Well, lesson learned for you.” I finish up and then set the straightener down and turn to him. “Ready. Where are we going?”

“That would be up to you, the puker.”

“Hey.” I hold my finger up to him. “Don’t call me that. It’s not my fault this spawn you inserted inside me is making me sick.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t insert a spawn in you.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “Leaked a spawn in me.”

“Ew, come on.”

I laugh out loud and move past him to my dresser, where I spritz myself with perfume and then slip on my boots. “I was planning on going to the bookstore. Think we can stop there as well?”

“Sure, oh, you know, there’s a deli right around the corner from the bookstore on Commercial Drive that’s really good.”

“I can’t have deli meat,” I say.

“Oh shit, that’s right, I read that somewhere. Uh, then what are you in the mood for?”

“Soup,” I answer. “And bread. Can we get that?”

He smiles softly. “Soup and bread, it is. I know the perfect place. A French café if that works for you.”

“That seems charming. I’m in.” I head into the main living space, where I grab my brown leather jacket that’s draped on the back of my chair and zip it up. Eli is standing at the entryway, leaning against the wall, eyeing me. “What?” I ask as I fluff my hair out of the collar.

“You look cute.”

I quickly glance at my black jeans, brown boots, and now covered-up white sweater. “This is nothing to write home about.”

“Just take the compliment, Penny.”

My cheeks flame with embarrassment. He’s right. I should. “Thank you.” And just to toss one his way, I say, “You, uh, you always look nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head while walking over to me and looping his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, let’s get going.”

“IF YOU HAVE something you want to look for, you can go peruse. No need to follow me,” I say when we enter the bookstore.

“I don’t need anything.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m just going to be looking at pregnancy books. You know, boring stuff.”

“Oh great, I’ll look with you.”

Not exactly what I wanted, but I have to give him credit for being interested. I’m not sure how many non-romantically attached fathers would be walking into the pregnancy section of a bookstore excited to peruse.

“Is there anything I can help you look for?” he asks as he walks side by side with me.

“Uh, not really. Just searching for a journal sort of thing.”

“What kind of journal?”

“One where I can write down my feelings and such as I move through the pregnancy. My mom kept one when she was pregnant with both me and Pacey. She just used a notebook, though. I know there are some out on the market that guide you. So, you know, just looking for that.”

“That’s pretty cool. Do you have yours from when your mom was pregnant with you?”

“Yes, I do. She gave it to me when I graduated high school. I really enjoyed looking through it, so I thought it might be nice to have one for our kid.”

“That is nice.” He’s silent for a second. “Have you told your parents yet?”

I shake my head as we round the corner to the pregnancy section. “I honestly have no idea how to break the news to them. I don’t know what they’re going to say. I’m pretty sure my dad just assumed I’ve never had sex and wants to keep it that way in his mind.”

“Do you want to tell them together? That way, you have someone to fall back on in case it doesn’t go well?”

“I know it won’t go well. I love my parents, but I don’t think they expected to be grandparents without a wedding beforehand. And they’re pretty chill about a lot of things, but I think this might be a hard one for them to accept.”

“Either way, I’ll be there for you. Like we said from the very beginning, this pregnancy isn’t for you to shoulder alone. We’re in this together. Just let me know when you want to tell them, and I’ll be there.”

“That means a lot to me, thank you.”

“Of course.” He glances at the stack of books and pulls one off the shelf. “The Big Fat Activity Book for Pregnant People.” This seems like fun. He flips it open and starts laughing. “Oh, this is good. Look, you can draw pictures of the people who annoy you while you’re pregnant.”

“Isn’t that charming?”

“Ooo, and it has quizzes.”

“Uh, that doesn’t really seem like what I’m looking for.”

“Well, I’m sold,” he says while leaning against the shelf and flipping through it.

“Sold as in you’re getting it for yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not pregnant.”

“I’m not?” he asks, staring down at his stomach. “Are you sure?”

I pat his stomach, his rock-hard stomach, and swallow hard. Wow, that’s a lot harder than I remember. Not that he was flabby by any means on his birthday, but that’s quite the flat stomach he has. “Uh, no . . . no baby in there.”

“Odd, I thought I was pregnant.”

“Stop it.” I poke him this time, which makes him laugh. “You don’t need that pregnancy book.”

“Uh, hell yeah, I do. I might not be carrying the child, but I’m still experiencing things. Plus, it will be entertaining. Something to do when I’m in my hotel room by myself. Or when I’m waiting for you to be done in the bathroom. Which, by the way, you take a long time. If we were at my place, we would have our own bathrooms, and that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I would not be comfortable in your place.”

His brow scrunches together. “Why not?”

“It’s big.”

“It’s a two-bedroom. I wouldn’t call that big. You should see some of the places the other guys have. My apartment is incredibly modest.”

“And the fireplace would just taunt me, chanting over and over this is where you had sex, this is where you got pregnant.”

“You think it was in front of the fireplace? I thought it was in my bed.”

“Why do you assume the bed?”

“Well”—he tucks the book under his arm—“for one, we didn’t penetrate much in front of the fireplace. If you recall, we went from there to the wall, where you came first, and I followed closely after.”

My cheeks heat immediately as I glance around to make sure no one is listening.

“And then after that, we went to my bedroom where, as you put it, I jack-hammered into you. You said the pounding was so hard. That’s how the condom broke.”

“I didn’t.” I lower my voice and whisper, “I didn’t say it like that.”

“Along those lines, you did. So I don’t think it was the fireplace. It was definitely the bed. That’s where you had the biggest orgasm too.”

My cheeks are so hot right now that I actually feel like you could fry an egg on them. And not only are they heated with embarrassment, but the image of Eli pulsing into me also floats through my brain. I have this strange pulse developing between my legs, an awareness, a yearning that I didn’t think I needed or wanted since I found out I was pregnant.

But it’s there, reminding me of that night, of the best sex I ever had. The feel of his strong body, taking charge, demanding from me, but also making sure my needs were taken care of. The feel of his long, hard length in the palm of my hand. How soft but firm he was. The way his teeth dragged over his lip when I smoothed my hand down to his balls. Or how he slowly moved inside me, allowing me to adjust to his size, but then took no mercy when he was fully inside. Pound after pound after pound . . .

The sweat that beaded between us.

The grasp of his hands on my hips, indenting to the point of pleasurable pain.

The delicious moan that vibrated from his chest . . .

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?” I ask, my eyes shooting to his. Oh my God, how long was I daydreaming?

“Your face is all flushed. Do you need some water?”

“Water?” I croak out.

“Yes.” His eyes grow concerned as he bends at the knees to look me in the eyes. His hand falls to my shoulder, and it feels like a total lightning bolt of lust zapping through me.

I immediately step away. “Uh, I can get my own water. Be right back. Stay here. Don’t come and get me.”

“Penny, wait, what’s going on?”

“I just have to pee. You can’t assist me with that, so stay put.”

“But do you need water?” he calls out.

I wave behind me. “I’m fine.” And I take off toward the bathrooms, where I pull my phone out and lock myself in a stall. I send a quick text to Blakely because something is happening to me, and I don’t like it.

Penny: SOS! Something just happened to me.

Within seconds, Blakely’s name is scrolling across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Talking quietly, I say, “I’m in the bathroom at the bookstore.”

“What are you doing in there?”

“Hiding from Eli.”

“Ohh-kay. Why are you hiding from Eli?”

“Because something really weird just happened to me, and I didn’t want to be around him while I attempt to settle myself down.”

“Oh God, was it some sort of discharge? Do you need me to bring you pants?”

“What? No. Ew, gross, Blakley.”

“Girl, if you think that’s gross, just wait. When my sister was pregnant, so many things came out of her. Discharge is the least of your concerns. You should happily welcome some minor discharge.”

“Can you please stop saying discharge? Nothing like that happened. It was more of a full-body reaction.”

“Hives? What have you eaten in the last few hours? Did you step on a bee? My parents’ dog once stepped on a bee and had an awful reaction. They had to take him to the emergency vet at three in the morning because he wouldn’t stop scratching. Absolutely terrible. Is your tongue swelling? Your voice sounds normal.”

“Oh my God, now I know how Eli feels when he’s trying to tell me something. Just stop talking for a second, and let me tell you what’s going on.”

“Okay, fine, you shall speak, but make it quick. I have pins and needles here.”

“I’m at the bookstore with Eli. He asked me to lunch—”

“Aw, really? Like on a date?”

“No, as friends. Remember, we’re not going there.”

“Right, right. Okay, proceed.”

“So we’re looking for a pregnancy journal for me, and somehow, we got on the topic about where we conceived the baby. And then, it hit me, this wave of heat followed by vivid, and I mean . . . vivid images of that night. And just like that, I became all panting and needy and . . . horny. It was so bad. Then he leaned down to be eye level with an extremely concerned look on his face. It was mortifying.”

“Oh my God, you told him you were fantasizing right there, in front of the how to birth a melon books?”

“Good God, no! Are you insane? I told him I had to pee and fled.”

“Smart move.”

“Did your sister ever experience something like this? For weeks, I’ve been so disgusted by the mere thought of a penis or any sort of affection that I feel absolutely out of sorts right now that a penis doesn’t seem so repulsive anymore.”

“Are you saying penises offer affection? Because it’s more like a pounding—depending on who you’re with, but affection? The penis doesn’t have that kind of bone in its sheath of skin.”

I’m silent for a second and then say, “I honestly hate you right now.”

“I’m just spitting out facts.”

“Just tell me if your sister experienced this or if I need to talk to my doctor.”

“Oh, she did,” Blakely says, her voice full of innuendo. “And frankly, I’ve been waiting and hoping this would happen to you.”

“What would happen to me?”

“The horny phase. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but when the second trimester comes along, that libido shoots through the roof, and I’ll guarantee your nipples will harden at the sound of a wrapper opening, thinking it’s a condom. You are in for a world of fun. Especially sharing a bed with Eli . . . oooo, this is where you cash in.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re going to want sex, and badly. Eli is clearly good at it, so enjoy it.”

“I told you, we’re not doing that.”

“Okay.” She chuckles.

“I’m serious.”

“Yes, sure, I know you are. Talk to me in a week or two and let me know if it still stands. Because if you’re already having these vivid thoughts, then it’s only going to get worse. And Eli likes you. If anything, you guys can have no-strings-attached sex. He helps you. You help him with the backup. It’s a win-win.”

“That’s not going to happen. We are not hooking up. That is off limits.”

HAVE his lips always been that full looking?

No . . . we are not thinking about his lips or his biceps or his hair and how it looks so full that I want to lose my fingers in it. Nor are we thinking about his boxer briefs, what’s underneath the boxer briefs, and what can be done when said boxer briefs are removed. Seriously, Penny. Get a freaking grip.

I shake my head and stare down at my menu. Food, you want food.

Not him.

Food.

“Do you like French onion soup?” Eli asks. “It’s fucking incredible here.”

Onions.

That’s exactly what I need.

I need a big fat onion to sit on my tongue and fester because nothing screams mood diffuser like a festered onion.

“I’ll have that,” I nearly scream, scaring Eli back into his chair. Clearing my throat, I calmly say, “French onion soup sounds good.” Gently, I rest my menu down and then pick up my water to take a sip.

Studying me with a curious eye, Eli asks, “Are you okay? You’ve been a little jumpy ever since the bookstore.”

“Do you realize you must ask me if I’m okay a dozen times a day?”

“Well, because I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“How about this? You assume I’m okay unless told otherwise.”

Just then, the server comes over, and Eli, the gentleman that he is, orders soup, a bread basket, and a side salad for each of us. The server, of course, asks for a selfie—which Eli kindly obliges—and then he takes off with our order.

When he’s out of earshot, Eli speaks lowly and says, “It’s my duty to make sure you’re okay, so if I ask, it’s because I care.” He winks. “Deal with it.”

“Deal with it?”

“Yup.” He grins. “Now, tell me, are you excited to fill out our pregnancy journals together?”

I twist my water glass on the table and shake my head. “I can’t believe you got one too.”

“I want the full experience.”

“Oh, do you now?” I smile. “Then does that mean we should hook the stim machine up to your undercarriage and reenact what childbirth will feel like? I’ve seen many influencer couples do that. Seems like fun.”

He shrugs. “If you want. My threshold for pain is quite high.”

“You say that now.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice completely serious. “I once played a game with a torn ligament in my ankle. I can make it through pretty much anything.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“Let me put it this way, Penny. You’re carrying my child, which means I’ll do what you ask of me. If that means strapping a stim machine to my junk so I can experience a sliver of what you’ll be going through, fine, I’ll do it. If you want to strap a watermelon to my stomach and make me do everyday activities around the house, then that’s fine too. Whatever you want, you get.”

“It’s annoying how accommodating you are.”

He laughs out loud. “I’m sorry, would you like me to be more unaccommodating?”

“No, because then that will only irritate me more.”

“Glad you’re honest.” He lifts his glass of water. “Tell me another thing I might not know about you.”

I give it some thought, and tell him the first thing that comes to mind. “I had a pregnancy scare in college. And I know how that makes me look—”

“It doesn’t make you look like anything. There’s such a shit double standard in this world. If a guy has sex, then he’s the man, but if a girl has sex, she’s looked down upon. That needs to change. Don’t apologize for being a human with normal sexual needs.”

His comment doesn’t surprise me. Eli seems to be the kind of guy who roots for everyone. An open and honest man with good morals. But the seriousness, the irritation in his voice, now that surprises me. It almost sounds like he’s fed up and can’t take the negative talk anymore.

“Well, thank you for saying that. I appreciate it. So, pregnancy scare. I was dating a guy, Jamie. He was pre-med and very focused but also very sweet. He made time for me in his busy schedule, which I know was hard for him. We dated for a little over a year when I thought I missed my period. I was freaked out, of course, because we were juniors in college and having a baby at that time isn’t ideal. When I told him, he immediately, without even blinking, told me to get an abortion. Demanded it. I didn’t even know if I was pregnant yet. I was just hoping for him to hold my hand and take me to the store to get a test. But he wouldn’t even look at me. He got up and left. I never took a test because I was so nervous it would be true, and then three days after, I got my period. When I told him, he tried to pull me into a hug, but I ended things with him. During a scary time of my life, he abandoned me. I couldn’t forgive him for that.”

“Wow.” Eli drags his hand over his mouth. “What a fucking tool.” And then his eyes grow soft when he says, “I’m sorry that happened to you. No woman deserves such inconsiderate treatment, especially during such a sensitive and unknowing time. Where’s the loser now?”

“I think he’s a family practitioner in Pennsylvania somewhere. Last I saw, he was still single.”

“Shocking,” Eli says sarcastically.

“Well, I’m still single. What does that say about me?”

“You’re not single. You have me, babe.” He winks, and my heart performs a rather messy somersault.

“We’re not a thing, Eli.”

“No, but you still have me, and that’s all that matters.”

Just then, our soup, salad, and bread are brought out. Eli thanks the server with a very welcoming grin and then picks up his spoon to smash through the crouton top of the soup.

“Are you going to share something with me?” I ask.

He lifts a spoonful of his soup, blows on it, and then takes a mouthful. When he dips his spoon back in his bowl, he says, “When my mom passed away, I was sent to live with her cousin, Marge. She had three children as well, all girls. Because they didn’t trust me, a twelve-year-old boy who just lost his mom, they made a room for me in their barn. It was insulated, so I wasn’t freezing during the winter, but it was lonely. Mom had got me started in hockey when I was about nine, and even though she didn’t make a lot in her job, somehow, she made sure I got to play hockey. Have new skates, equipment. All that stuff. I thought I was going to lose hockey like I lost my mom. It was shit. But I earned money for ice time through chores. I got up early to feed the animals, help with the cows, and after practice and school, I helped Tobias with anything he needed. I learned a lot, but I wasn’t loved. There was no affection shown toward me, and there were many nights when I just went to my barn to watch hockey. Study it, live it.”

Tears are streaming down my cheeks when he glances up at me.

“Shit,” he says as he moves his chair around the table. He picks up my hand and strokes my knuckles with his thumb. “I didn’t tell you that to make you cry. I just wanted you to know that I know what it feels like to feel abandoned.”

“But that’s so awful. You were so alone for six years. How is that fair to you?”

“It wasn’t, but it was the hand I was dealt. I had hockey, and the hard work around the farm grew me into the man I am today. They weren’t abusive—”

“Making you live in a barn by yourself because they were afraid you’d be a sexual predator is abusive, Eli.”

“I guess in a certain way, it is. But they never hurt me. I spent Christmas with them. They bought me simple presents, but they were more of a fostering family than anything. I barely knew them, and they were put in a situation they didn’t ask for.”

“But you step up when put in that kind of situation.” My mind keeps thinking about a twelve-year-old version of Eli with bright blue-green eyes, just looking for anybody to love him, and it splits me in two. Before I know what I’m doing, I throw my arms around him and bury my face into his chest, clinging tight. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I pay a therapist a lot of money to help me sort through all the bullshit in my head. But I appreciate your compassion.”

I still hold him tight, not sure I’ll be able to let go right away.

He rubs my back softly as he says, “Penny, it’s really okay. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” My voice is wobbly, and snot drips from my nose.

“Yes.” He chuckles. “I’m sure.”

When I pull away, I reach for my napkin, and I quickly blot at my nose. Eli’s hand remains on my back, ever the protector. “How about after this, we go get some ice cream?”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

“STOP, you did not draw naked women for money,” I say as I sit across from Eli at home. We decided to pick up ice cream at the store and make sundaes. I will not be telling Blakely because I believe this would be considered cheating on her.

“Sure did. I needed the cash. Hockey was expensive, so I did anything to make a buck.”

“Are you good at drawing?”

“Fuck no.” He shakes his head. “But I convinced the guys at my school they needed my drawings. They went for ten bucks apiece.”

“Ten dollars? For someone else’s drawing, that they could probably do themselves?”

“Yup. My signature was pointy nipples. The guys loved them. Every girl had really pointy nipples, and it worked for me. I made around five thousand dollars on those things.”

“Wait, what? Five thousand dollars? That means you had to draw five hundred pictures of pointy nipples. When did you have the time?”

“I made the time. Luckily, school came easy to me, so I didn’t have to spend hours upon hours studying. When I was alone in the barn, I’d just start drawing. I’d replicate a lot and sometimes do different variations, but yeah, it was a great moneymaker for me. I have the horny guys in my school to thank for supporting my hockey career.”

“Would you ever get special requests?”

He smirks. “I got a few, but I didn’t stray far from what I knew.”

“Did Marge or Tobias ever ask where you were getting the money from?”

“Not really. They didn’t pay close attention. I used the money for new gear and gas for the people who drove me when I needed a ride. Simple shit like that.”

“Did you ever keep pictures for yourself?”

He lifts his spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream. “A few.”

Chuckling, I ask, “Did you ever get a boner drawing them?”

This time, he laughs and nods. “A few times.”

“Wow, just wow.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I never would have pegged you for an erotic artist.”

“You have to make a living somehow. Thankfully for me, I found my niche and ran with it.”

“Did anyone ever try to copy your business model?”

“Oh, yeah. There was this guy who thought he’d try to undersell me, but his stuff wasn’t nearly as good as mine. I learned shading in my art class and used that to my advantage.”

“Do you draw still?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. And honestly, I think if I did, all I’d draw is topless women because that’s all I know how to draw. Then what do I look like at that point? Not someone trying to make money for ice time. I’d just look like a twenty-eight-year-old creep.”

“You’re right about that. Oh, I can only imagine what the guys would say if they caught you drawing on the bus.”

“Let’s not even think about it.” He finishes the last mouthful of his ice cream—which he took three giant scoops of. I’m not here to judge, but it was a lot of ice cream, and he ate it with no problem. “Ever step into the realm of drawing penises?”

“Only the basic silhouette on a random person’s notepad just to—no pun intended—dick around with them.”

“Were you a troublemaker in school?”

“Depends. When it came to class and school, I was a respectful student. I never wanted to get in trouble, and if I knew I could kiss my teacher’s ass for a better grade, I’d do it. But with my friends, I was a bit of a troublemaker. I had so much fun pranking Pacey, so I found ways to get under my friends’ skin as well. I was a tease.”

“Ah, kind of like the mild torture I’ve been through since I’ve been here?”

“Exactly.” I smile at him. “And I appreciate your use of the word mild because, let’s be honest, half the stuff I’ve done to you is barely a blip on the things I could be doing.”

“Oh? Are there pranks you want to pull on me?”

“There are things I could be doing, but I’m also a smart woman, and I know you probably have a vengeful side in you. I know you wouldn’t just let my pranks go unanswered. There would be retaliation.”

“You can bet your cute ass that I’d retaliate. And you wouldn’t know when or how.”

“Exactly why I don’t go there. Well, besides the whole baby chip thing, I couldn’t help myself. It was too easy. Plus, I needed that laugh.”

“Glad I could assist in making your day brighter.”

“You did. There have been some rough days, so that was definitely a bright one.”

“When you speak of rough days, are you talking about when we weren’t talking?”

“All of it,” I say while I absentmindedly twirl my spoon in my bowl. “Finding out I was pregnant, telling you and Pacey, and the fallout from that. The awkward phase we went through, and then, of course, the fight between you and Remi and the ramifications from that.” I let out a deep sigh. “I feel like I hopped on a roller coaster unwillingly. But today has helped a lot. Today has been one of the best days I’ve had in a while, so thank you.”

“It has been a pretty great day.” He smiles back at me. “Now, how should we end it?”

“Maybe we watch some Ozark?”

“Sounds perfect.” He stands from the table and takes my bowl. “I’ll clean up. You go get in your pajamas, and I’ll meet you out here for some Ozark.”

And then he walks into the kitchen with our bowls, leaving me feeling warm and . . . anchored. And after such a crazy last month or so, that’s a good way to feel.