Page 40 of My Pucked Up Neighbor

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. Too late. It bubbles out of me, and Richard raises an eyebrow from across the office. I just shake my head and look away.

Without thinking, I forward the thread to Kira.

Mandy:Tell me I’m not full-blown crushing.

The reply is immediate.

Kira:Oh, sweet baby field mouse. You are past crushing. You are knees-deep in the flirty wilderness.

Mandy:That’s not even a thing.

Kira:It is now. He’s texting you lawyer memes. You’re basically married.

Mandy:He’s just being nice.

Kira:Nice? That man is hockey’s version of a cinnamon roll dipped in sin.

I nearly choke on my coffee.

Mandy:That’s it. You’re banned from metaphors.

Kira:You’re just mad because I’m right.

I turn off my phone and place it face down on the desk, heart thudding a little too fast for a work break.

But I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

***

That night, I’m back at Nate’s.

He’s not home, so I’ve got my books spread across the kitchen table for a change, highlighters standing at attention, and notes stacked in color-coded harmony. I even moved my little desk lamp and plugged it in here.

But tonight, I’m restless. Maybe it’s the Wilkins victory buzz, or maybe it’s the fact that my heart skipped a beat when my phone lit up with Nate’s name earlier.

I’m mid-sentence in my Property Law outline when I hear the front door open. Footsteps. The soft thud of his duffel hitting the floor.

I glance up just as he walks in.

He freezes, then grins. "Well, damn. This kitchen’s never looked better."

"Sorry, my desk lamp lured me. Felt like a change of scenery and you weren’t home."

He walks over, eyeing a paper I left turned sideways. "What’s this?"

I grin. "Law school thing I learned. It’s like a mini argument: facts, rule, analysis, conclusion. We live and die by them."

He lifts a brow and scans the first few lines. "This is actually impressive."

"Are you surprised?"

He shoots me a look. "Only that you didn’t charge me to read it."

I laugh. "Give me time. There’s an hourly rate."

He opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water, tossing me one without asking. I catch it. Smooth. Practiced. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.

"I’m going to hit the shower real quick," he says. "Don’t let that outline bully you too hard."

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