Page 42 of The Ex Puck Bunny
“That’s different than being datable.”
“I’m talking about having a fun time, not marrying one,” Leah says.
What’s with everyone talking about fun? I’m starting to think it’s overrated. Then her comment about marriage catches up with me.
I swat a cluster of plastic Easter eggs hanging at eye level out of the way as two women caterwaul a Prince song from the karaoke stage.
Emerson says, “Don’t look now, but one of them is coming our way.”
I don’t turn around to see who it is. “He probably just wants the check.”
Emerson says, “Nope. His sights are set on you.”
I whirl around at the same time Grady stops a pace away.
“I’ll get your check,” I blurt.
He shakes his head. “Nope. Micah’s treat.” He points to a guy with chin-length blond hair who looks like he came here from Viking Central Casting.
Emerson and Leah exchange a look and then return to their front-row view of whatever is about to happen.
“I want you—” Grady starts, echoing what Leah said.
“Me?” I choke out.
“To sing karaoke with me. The guys and I had a bet. I won.”
Then why does this feel like a loss . . . of the space between us as Grady takes my hand and drags me toward the front of the room, sending a shockwave through me and directly to my belly where those pesky butterflies take flight.
Emerson grabs the lace of my server apron and lassoes it into her hands.
I only hope the sock or whatever is in my pant leg doesn’t fall out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The guys betthat I couldn’t name every Stanley Cup-winning team—since its inception in 1960—in chronological order. As mentioned, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands recently.
I faltered when I got to the 1990s with Dallas and Detroit, second-guessing which came first but ultimately trusted my gut.
If I lost, I had to pay for dinner. If I won, I had to try to make the server with the caramel-colored hair smile. To them, neither outcome worked in my favor, but I have newbie tax to pay to the team, so I took it like a champ.
The Fish Bowl is a regular haunt for hockey players and fans alike. The assortment of guys I came here with to grab grub all claimed they’d never seen her so much as grin.
I didn’t mention I know Heidi and not only have witnessed her smile but have even made her smirk a few times since being back in Cobbiton. In fact, um, I’m intimately acquainted with her lips.
They didn’t recognize that she was Trey Dillard’s ex or aformer part of the Ice Kitty performance group for the LA Lions.
The guys hoot when I take Heidi by the hand and lead her to the stage for karaoke. When our palms touch, my skin ignites, but thankfully, the stage lighting is dim.
Our tame and frantic kisses play through my mind. The way she looked so youthful when we were at the park earlier. And how adorable it was when she clammed up while taking my order. I didn’t see any of this coming, but it makes me like her and want her more.
She stops short, digging in her heels. “I’m not going up there.”
“Come on, one song. It’ll be fun.”
“Singing in public is not my kind of fun.”
“But skating or doing flips is?” I ask, referring to both her cheerleading and ice-escapade days.
