Page 68 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

“That makes more sense,” she said. “A Volkswagen definitely doesn’t fit you.”

I flashed her a wink and got into the car.

I almost stopped and opened her door, but she already had hers open and her ass in my seat from the moment that I’d unlocked it.

I started it up and listened to it purr, a grin flashing on my face when she said, “Ohh. It sounds nice.”

“Funny enough, when I started it up the first time, I was a little bit surprised with the growliness of the engine. I don’t think I ever expected a Volkswagen to sound like this.” I chuckled. “I walked into the rental place and told them I needed one, and the guy behind the counter was all, ‘I have the perfect vehicle for you.’ Then gave me this tiny hatchback.”

“I’m guessing that he didn’t realize you were well over six feet and wouldn’t be super comfortable in it,” she teased. “But it’s adorable watching you get in.”

Pulling out of the parking lot, I asked, “What do you do for a living, Merriam?”

“I work at a candy shop,” she said. “Well, my dad owns it, and I manage it. One day, he wants me to take it over, but meanwhile…”

The way she trailed off made my belly tighten. “What’s wrong with the job?”

“I’m not sure there’ll be a business to take over,” she admitted. “This economy is literally kicking our asses. No one wants to buy candy when they can barely afford groceries. My dad is burying his head in the sand, convinced that we’ll bounce back. But we didn’t even meet sales quotas during our biggest season of the year? I mean, Christmas practically equals candy. It’s usually our highest grossing month. And to be honest, it is. We’re doing better this month than we did last month. But that’s not really saying much.”

I looked over at her, noted the concern on her face, and said, “Do you want to take over the candy business?”

She shrugged. “I went to school for business, sure that I was going to love it. But I kind of hate it. I don’t like the business side of things. I like the making candy part of it. Sales? Not so much. Cleaning up? Definitely not.”

“Sounds like you have some hard decisions to make,” I pointed out. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

I rolled through a yellow light, then swung an immediate left that would take us to our restaurant.

I was pulling into a surprisingly good spot when she said, “I wanted to be a mom.”

My brows rose. “Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing?”

She shrugged. “My dad is of the mind that I need to run this business and put all of my effort into it. He wants me to wait to start a family until I’m older.” She looked at me then. “You’ve literally touched on every touchy subject that I have in a five-minute drive.”

I got out and moved around to her car door.

Opening it for her, I said, “You can have one of my touchy subjects then.”

Her brows rose. “Oh, yeah?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“What is it?” she wondered.

The two of us started walking toward the front doors where Bryson, Eliska, Lance and Gisela were already waiting.

“I don’t know how much longer I want to play hockey,” I offered. “It was my goal to win the Stanley Cup before I retired, but that hasn’t happened yet, and I’m getting weary.”

“You look like you’re healthy,” she observed. “Are you just wanting to leave while you’re on top?”

“I want to leave while I’m still healthy enough to have kids and raise them. I want to make it to all the soccer games, school functions, and parent meetings.”

“You have kids?” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “But when I do, I want to be there for them. I can’t do that if I’m traveling around the States with a brutal hockey schedule. Hell, I can’t even get a date because any woman that I see thinks it’s absolutely nuts that I am gone more than I’m home for hockey.”

“Oh, boy,” Bryson drawled. “Don’t get him started on this.”

“On what?” Lance asked, not hearing my words as we’d walked up.

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