Page 49 of Dream Girl Drama

“Look at you. You’re a natural born pet owner.”

“Maybe. Yeah.” Her confidence grew. “He seems to like me.”

Sig scoffed. “Of course he does.”

Chloe looked at his collarbone for several long, indecisive seconds, before sighing and resting her cheek there, the fingertips of her right hand brushing up, down, up, down against his triceps. His balls got heavier with every stroke, but the way she was so naturally drawn to touch him, the presence of that was worth the pain.

“Tell me about your mentor,” he said, gruffly. “Grace, right?”

“Yes. Grace.” She was silent a moment, as if she was recalling the events of the day. “She’s very strict, very blunt, but... I have a feeling she wouldn’t agree to see me again if she didn’t think I have potential for something bigger. In fact, Iknowshe wouldn’t.”

Her tone was almost a dreamlike murmur. The sound of her voice comforted and aroused Sig so much that he was only vaguely worried now that she’d look around at his place, his stuff, and register he didn’t have enough money to support her, make her happy. Not indefinitely. Not without a new contract.

“I’ve been coasting on the talent I was born with. She’s not going to let me do that anymore. She wants to push me and, yeah, that’s scary. No one has ever really pushed me, only complimented me. Marveling over the prodigy. But as soon as I met her today, I could feel I was in the presence of someone... greater. I just don’t know if I’m resilient enough to be challenged. Really challenged.Whiplashchallenged, minus the abuse.”

“Thank you for adding that last part.”

“You’re welcome.” He heard her swallow. “She thinks I cango... far, Sig. If I can handle the work. If I don’t buckle under her instruction. Playing the harp without simply being told I’m wonderful at it all the time.”

Sig tipped her chin up so he could look down into her face. “How far does she think you can go, Chlo?”

“First chair,” she said quietly. “Principal harp for BSO. If I can learn enough. If I work hard. Really, really hard.”

Pride rushed in from all sides. “Holy shit.”

“I don’t think I can do it,” she whispered, studying him for a reaction.

He saw the spark of hope in her eyes, the reluctant excitement. So he didn’t hesitate when he said, “Yes, you can.”

Chloe looked down, then to the side. “I’m just not sure...” She trailed off with a frown. “What is all that stuff?” Her spine straightened a little more. “Are those signed jerseys?”

The temperature of Sig’s blood started to drop as she zipped her attention back to him.

“Where are you sending them?”

Chapter Twelve

Chloe felt an ominous gurgle in her stomach.

Something had simply been...offsince she walked into Sig’s apartment. For one, it was nothing like she’d expected. Much smaller than the luxury condo she’d pictured him returning to every night. Just like his truck, the furniture appeared to be well loved, but verging on ancient. Touches of him were everywhere, from a stack of professional athlete autobiographies to the handheld vacuum charging on the counter.

For all his flash and speed on the ice, Sig had an old soul. He liked knowing facts, craved tidiness. Even his hockey sticks were leaned against the wall at perfect ninety-degree angles.

On the television? The Home Shopping Network.

And she wanted to ask him about that. Why he would be watching Laurie Woodruff peddle Victorian-style watches when he usually chuckled and rolled his eyes at Chloe’s constant viewing of the twenty-four-hour shopping network. But then she saw the pile of merchandise sitting in neat piles on his kitchen table and the sight stole all her focus. An invisible finger of dread traced down the nape of her neck as she cataloged everything she was seeing.

An open laptop with a spreadsheet on the screen.

Boxes, tape, scissors. A weighing scale.

At least eight packed boxes, ready to ship in the corner.

Signed pucks, jerseys, rolled-up posters, helmets. A broken stick.

“Where are you sending all these memorabilia?” she prompted again, looking at him, her nerves tingling when she couldn’t get a read. “It looks like you’re selling it.”

Sig’s face was carved in stone. “It does look like that, doesn’t it?”

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