Page 38 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“Honey Butter,” I blurt.
The bakery has delicious honey butter was the conclusion to my thought and the perfect nickname for Margo.
The room falls strangely silent. The guys exchange a look.
“You have your bucket on tight tonight, buddy?” Pierre asks with concern sliding across his features.
I give my head a shake. “Of course I was wearing my helmet.”
“So he does speak,” Ted says as if this is a triumph.
“In a strange code. Honey Butter. What could that mean?” Hayden asks.
“Whit made honey butter cookies not long ago. She got it from the Busy Bee Bakery. We prefer regular butter and sugar, but they were still good.”
Micah hitches a smile. “Honey Butter can only mean one thing.”
“Other than it being a condiment? Ingredient? How would it be classified?” Ted asks.
“It means our man Hammer has a honey,” Micah says.
“A honey butter?” Hayden scratches his temple.
Margo is sweet, and I did pinch her butt. It seemed like the natural course of action at the time. I noticed how nice it looked in her pants. Her mother and sister were criticizing her food choices. The opportunity arose to show her that some people appreciate her assets. Namely me. If anyone else finds themselves scoping out her backside or so much as pinching it, pucks will be thrown.
The guys exchange a look. If I were to peer into the mirror right now, I might not recognize myself. I should probably shave at some point. I used to think the beard brought me good luck. It also keeps my face warm. Does Margo like facial hair?
Hayden says, “He has been acting a little less like a stone.”
“The word is stoic,” Micah corrects.
“It’s in the eyes. I see heart eyes.” Redd circles his first two fingers around his and then juts them at me.
Hayden waggles his eyebrows. “You mean to say that Hammer is in?—?”
I know the end of that sentence and it’s categorically not true. I am not in love with Margo. We’re getting married for mutual reasons of convenience. They don’t need to know aboutthe electric thrill inside when I see her and hear her talk. When I think about her ...
The word for how I feel isgiddy. Slightly unfocused and distractible. Very much not myself. But I’m okay with that. I’ve been myself for twenty-eight years. This is just a little blip. It’ll pass and I’ll go back to concentrating on hockey.
Ted says, “That silence tells me he’s got it. Got it good.”
With a grunt, I gather my gear and leave the locker room.
They make kissing noises in my wake, calling meLove Butter,Dream Lover, andLover Boy. All of it makes me twitchy.
On my way home that night, I drive by the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station by the highway and consider buying some pie for the homeless guys who loiter outside the convenience store. It’s a good deed and not because I’m thinking about Margo.
When I pull into a parking spot, through the window, a woman sits at a table, her head in her hands. Her soft red hair waterfalls over her shoulders. My chest tightens. My senses go on high alert. There’s no way that could be her. I check my text messages and haven’t received one from Margo in exactly four days. Not even after the game.
Scrolling back, the last one she sent said something about needing to talk.
That’s not my strong suit.
I watch the woman in the diner for another moment, remembering when Margo inhaled the bouquet after catching it at the wedding. Same tilt of the head and the same slope of the shoulders. When she looks up, same profile.
There’s no mistaking the woman who’s been the biggest cheerleader of my career in these last six weeks. But what is she doing here alone here late at night?
I should know the answer to that question. If I’d been replying to her messages, I probably would. Put me in the penalty box. I deserve it.
