Page 30 of Fluttering Heart

We’re going to try an experiment this coming week where I stay with him all the time. Since he also does a lot of his work from home—from that amazing home office I’ve envied since the first time I saw it—it could be tricky if we don’t mesh well workwise.

Sure it’s not like we’reinbusiness together, but after so long of only having to worry about my own needs in the workplace, I’m definitely nervous about how productive this week will be for me.

The most logical way I’ll get distracted is by Finn’s gorgeousness and our hormones, but what if he has a lot of calls and is very loud? What if he eats at his desk? What if the whole place is a mess while he works?

He’s assured me he’s not, multiple times, and he confessed how he got Beau to haul over the borrowed desk from his mom’s house—one she assured us she never uses—so that I can have my own space in his big office. For whatever reason, we haven’t really worked at the same time when I’ve stayed with him. Instead, he’s worked at the dining table to give me space, and though I’m grateful, I want him to enjoy his amazing office. I don’t want to take anything away from him.

No matter how much I tell myself there’s just no way we’re going to clash so badly that we break up, my nerves won’t disappear until it’s time to actually get to work.

It’s also hard not to let my mind get away from me with fantasies about what our future as a couple could look like.

Living in Crushville seems like the most idyllic thing in the world, and Finn’s house is gorgeous—not only his office. His family is great, loving, and welcoming too. His grandmother—Lala, as she asked me to call her—declared I’d be her new pupil on how to make and prepare all kinds of pasta.

Finn and Beau both assured me I wasn’t taking anyone’s spot since they’re all very well trained already, but I still felt so unsure about how easily they all brought me into the fold.

I guess old habits die hard, but my heart sings with joy every time they automatically include me in something. The logical—a.k.a. damaged—part of my brain won’t let me just feel that joy and warmth. I’m constantly battling thoughts of disaster and heartbreak and rejection, but Finn has been wonderfully patient with me.

This week, I want to show him that I’m just as invested in this relationship as he is. I want to show him that I wantusas much as he’s shown me he does.

I want to give the other side of my brain—the hopeless romantic and forever starved for love part—a bigger stage. I want to listen to that part more than anything. I want to dream of living in Crushville in Finn’s home, and make it my home too, without dread filling up the pit of my stomach like a stone.

I want... forever.

And that’s scary as fuck.

But I’ve been brave before. I know I can be brave again.

Just then the players of Las Vegas come out for warmups and the crowd boos with abandon until Charlie glides onto the ice—almost the last to do so.

For him, the crowd cheers and claps. I guess they really do love him here even if he’s never played for this team.

Hometown hero seems to be the general feeling toward him, and I can’t say it doesn’t warm my heart, the way he smiles and waves at the crowd.

Santa comes onto the ice after him but he doesn’t look around at all. He’s laser-focused on the ice in front of him and on the other players.

In the month I’ve spent dating Finn, we’ve watched a lot of hockey. Mostly the Pirates’ games but also a bunch of others. I’ve noticed that Santa never pays any attention to the crowd. Hell, he only pays attention to the players of the other team when they’re actually playing, and my guess is not one of those playerswantsSanta’s attention on them.

He’s a beast and a hell of a player in my humble opinion.

I’m jostled out of my musings when someone bumps into me, and I would almost have fallen against the people in the seats next to mine if I hadn’t been holding on to the back of the seat in front of me.

I turn around, a frown already marring my face, and freeze.

Rick.

My ex, who’d made my life miserable until I escaped his clutches.

“Little Lou,” he says in a surprised tone that’s as fake as his spray tan. “What are the odds? I never pictured you as the type to come to hockey games.”

That might not sound like an insult to the people listening around us, but it sure as fuck is. “Not the type” was a very common phrase for him.

“Well I am,” I say through clenched teeth.

Safe to say, Rick and I ended on bad terms, and his fake smile is not going to make me forget that. I won’t let it. Even though he’s a manipulative fucking con artist who’s weapon of choice is gaslighting—and his fists—I’m no longer scared of him.

“Now, now, little Lou. Why are you so tense?” he croons like the slimy slimeball he is. He raises his hand and I automatically flinch away, but he pats my cheek like that’s a normal thing to do to anyone. I cringe away, and I’m about to tell him to fuck off when there’s a sudden crash right next to us.

And that’s when I see two hundred and eighty pounds of angry Russian hockey player glaring at the handstill touching my face. I’m as surprised as anyone—and by the gasp going around the section it’s a lot of surprise—that Santa’s attracting so much attention on my behalf. But I’m glad, because with Rick now focused on someone else, I can finally shift back enough so his hand isn’t touching me any longer.

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