Page 52 of The Girlfriend Zone

“Can’t complain. Training camp starts tomorrow.”

Her posture straightens, and she flashes a cheery smile, but there’s something professional about it that pings my radar.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” she says.

Scratch that. The radar is screaming. Before I can ask, Birdie calls out, “Hot chef!”

Leighton laughs, her eyes brightening with a warmth that makes my chest ache. “She’s so very Birdie.”

Dragging a hand down my face, I mutter, “She is.”

I head up to the counter, grab our drinks, and shoot my grandmother a look. “Did you really need to use that nickname?”

“It amuses me.” With a sly smile, she sets a plate with a caramel toffee bar onto the tray. “And here’s a little something special on the house. For the two of you.”

“Birdie,” I chide, low, a warning.

“What?” she asks, feigning innocence.

“You’re playing matchmaker again.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh look, I see other customers. Bye, bye.” And with that, she hustles over to the register.

I shake my head, bringing the drinks and pastry back to the table and setting the tray down. “A little surprise from Birdie.”

“For the hot chef,” Leighton teases with a hint of softness.

“For us,” I correct her, sliding the plate to the center of the table.

We share a look that lingers longer than it should, and I feel that familiar pull between us, something warm and charged we’re both trying to deny. Leighton picks up her Earl Grey latte, admiring the swirl of foam shaped into a woman high-kicking. “Almost a sin to drink it.”

“But everything’s ephemeral.”

She arches a brow. “Aren’t you philosophical today?”

“It was my major. Well, it was one of them.”

She tilts her head, her eyes registering surprise. “One of them?” she repeats.

“I double majored. Philosophy and psychology.”

“Who even are you?”

I laugh. “I was kind of into school.”

She lets out a low whistle. “I’ll say. Two? Wow. That’s amazing.”

Fine, it’s just a degree or two. But I like that she’s alittle impressed. “Honestly, I was going to get a master’s or go to law school, but hockey called.”

“I don’t meet a lot of athletes who decided between graduate school and the pros.”

I square my shoulders and take the compliment because, yeah, it’s a fucking compliment and it feels good. “I like to aim high,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

“You really do,” she says, then sighs, a little thoughtfully. “You’re a planner?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Me too,” she says, her tone warm. “I like to have options too. Opportunities.”

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