Page 12 of Puck & Make Up

He pauses then leans a hip against the bar, and I nearly groan at the universal code for an incoming conversation that’s sure to be long, soul-searching—at least when it comes to my uncle. His words when he speaks a moment later confirm I’m right. He’s far softer than normal, “Dessie, kiddo,” he says gently—fuckinggently, “the stockroom has never been more organized”—his eyes flick to the side, toward the steel counter I’ve been wiping down—“and this whole space is clean enough to run a science experiment on. What’s going on?”

I’m avoiding a certain location—coughmy apartment—in case a certain hockey player shows up.

Same as I’m keeping my eye on the front door.

If I had a life, I’d go somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

It’s just…well, I have my friends.

And I have Monroe’s.

Something I know that Foxknows, considering that I spend almost every waking moment here.

But since Bailey and company are back in the Bay Area, getting ready with their men for the upcoming Gold season, and I have absolutely no intention of going to Maggie’s or being a sitting duck in my apartment…I’m hiding here.

At least the bar has two exits.

“I took a vacation not that long ago,” I hedge, dropping the towel onto the counter and turning to give him my best I’m-totally-fine-and-don’t-feel-like-my-life-is-falling-apart-and-that-I’m-a-giant-failure look.

One he doesn’t buy given the expression he tosses back.

Oh, and the fact that he calls me out on my?—

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” I press on, knowing that I’ll either have to argue with him—and continue to lie—or make a break from it, hole up, and hope that Fox was just fucking with me like usual.

Don’t back down.

Don’teverback down.

The familiar mantra—the words that helped me power through a toxic work environment, that helped me when I lost my dream career, that helped me when I moved home like a fucking failure—somehow don’t have the same charm they used to.

Or effectiveness.

“And remember that vacation?” I narrow my eyes when he glares at me. “Don’t think I forgot the state of this place when I returned.”

His cheeks, mostly hidden beneath a bushy white beard and handlebar mustache flashes red. “Managed just fine all these years without that damned computer.”

“Thatdamned computerhouses the inventory system I implemented so you’re not sending servers out to the grocery store because we’re out of onions or milk.”

He scowls.

And I take advantage of the fact that he’s momentarily stymied to lean over, press a kiss to his cheek. “And on that note,” I murmur, “I’ll head home. Call me if you need anything.”

His face smooths out. “Now that Rosie has taken the town’s hockey players in hand”—by playing matchmaker with her niece and Axel, former ringleader of said hockey players—“there’s nothing to worry about here.” He pats my shoulder. “Go home, Dessie girl. Get some rest and don’t even think about coming in tomorrow?—”

“I—”

He fixes me with a glare that evenIhave to give in to?—

Not backing down. Nope. Just…choosing my battles.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’ll be in Friday for the dinner rush. And I don’t want to hear any arguments about it,” I add, jabbing my finger in his direction.

He ignores me. “Dessie?—”

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