Page 8 of Body Check

And I’m not blind to the fact that my dedication to the sport robbed me of a balanced life outside the rink. More specifically, it robbed me of a lifetime with Holly. I don’t regret much in life, but . . . Well, let’s just say that I’ve got a first-class ticket on the Wishful Thinking train. Here’s to hoping that one day I’ll be able to look at the woman in front of me and not feel the needle of regret pricking my calloused skin.

Hands empty, I settle for another shrug. “Nothing a little BBQ sauce can’t fix. Trust me, you can’t even see the chicken at this point.”

Her nose wrinkles. “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“Disgusting, I know.”

She rolls her eyes, and then, without waiting for me to do the whole welcome to my humble abode bit, shoulders past me and enters the condo I purchased six months ago. I’m not surprised that she knows where I moved to, considering that I know that she opted for a modern apartment overlooking the Charles River after she sold our historic Cambridge triple-decker.

The money from the sale spontaneously appeared in my bank account a few weeks after we finalized our divorce. Along with a short email that got straight to the point: “I know the lawyers gave me the house, but it’s not right for me to keep the money from it. You purchased it. Not me. We’ll call it even.”

Even.

I almost snort.

Holly and I aren’t evencloseto being even. Not in this lifetime.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?” Her flats squeak against the marble flooring as she whirls around to face me, hands balled into fists at her sides. “So much goddamned nerve.”

I jut my chin in the direction of my abandoned dinner. “I promise the chicken isn’t protesting the smothering. It was a unanimous decision—mutually beneficial to us both.”

Her jaw visibly tightens. “You have no idea how tempted I am to—”

“Eat with me? There’s a lone chicken breast on the stove, begging to be dressed with ketchup, just the way you like it.” I’m fucking with her, riling her up in the way that I know throws her off course.

She doesn’t disappoint.

Cheeks flushing, Holly drags in a deep breath. Smooths her perfectly blown-out hair behind her ears. Sets her hands on her hips and squares off against me like some sort of Texan daredevil from the old Western days, pistol strapped to her thigh and a corset cinched around her waist.

“You knew that I’d find out and you meddled anyway.”

Guess we’re doing this.

I spin on my heel and head for the kitchen. If you were to Google “open floor plan,” my condo would fit the bill. Exposed brick walls. Not a single doorway in sight when you first enter. The living room and kitchen make up some eight-hundred square feet. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room allow for natural light and offer a gorgeous view of the harbor.

There’s no way I’ll ever give up living on the coast. Not even for the chance to return to good ol’ landlocked Zachsville once I retire—I’ve been gone from Texas almost longer than I lived there.

Holly’s shoes echo off the marble as she trails me.

“Jackson, can we not do the avoidance thing for once?”

Pulling open the top cupboard, I palm a plate and glance over my shoulder to look at the woman who stole my heart within weeks of meeting her. “We’re gonna have this conversation like civilized people,” I mutter, not missing the way her blue eyes skirt down my body.

I hate that I can’t read her worth a damn. Though the stiff expression she’s rocking is all I need to know that she’s shut herself off from me.What else did you expect? Y’all aren’t married anymore.

Reflexively, my grip tightens on the plate.

“I’m not in the mood for wine,” she tells me after a minute.

“No wine.” I pick up the tongs and slide the chicken from pan to plate. “Baked chicken for one coming up.” I spoon mashed potatoes next to the chicken, then follow up with a helping of baked beans reheated straight from a can.Welcome to the Culinary House of Carter: Yelp Rated, 1.7-stars.Setting the plate onto the kitchen island next to mine, I move to the fridge and grab the ketchup while I’m at it.

Never let it be said that I don’t have Holly’s best interests at heart.

“Jackson—”

I lift my brows at her as I settle on the stool again. “Want to talk? Eat some dinner and we’ll talk.”

“I really—”

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