Page 60 of Face Off
“Nonchalance isn’t in your vocabulary, is it, Miller?”
“I’m afraid not, Red. I’m not sure I can even spell it. Sorry for objectifying you. You look really good, and I didn’t think you would show.”
“Is it okay if I’m here?” she asks hesitantly, rubbing the toe of her boot on the marble floor.
“Of course it is,” I say right away, not wanting her to feel unwelcome. “I’m surprised, but it’s a good surprised.”
“Piper sent me eight thousand texts.” Emerson shrugs, an unbothered pop of her shoulders, but she’s not scowling. I can work with that half-assed enthusiasm. “I admire her tenacity.”
“That woman might be small, but she sure is mighty. Grab a plate and help yourself. There’s no order to things, and it’s pandemonium in the kitchen.”
“I think I’ll hang out here for a minute and let the madness die down,” she says. Her fingers brush along the hem of her skirt and she gives the velvet a little tug. “If that’s cool. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“I could give you a tour while you wait. You’re the only one who hasn’t seen the apartment. It’s nothing special, but I’ll show you around.”
“Nothing special? It’s the penthouse of a luxury high-rise.”
“You’re right.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my black joggers and rock forward. “This place is fantastic and well worth the hefty price tag.”
Emerson eyes me. She glances over my shoulder at the mayhem unfolding with our teammates, then bites her bottom lip.
She does that a lot, I’ve noticed.
When she’s deep in thought. When she’s not sure how she’s supposed to react to something. When she’s trying not to smile.
Fuck. I want to make her smile.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Only because it’s better than standing here and looking like a creep.”
“You do remind me of a Peeping Tom. Admit it: You want to know all of my secrets.”
“Seeing how you organize your socks might give me some insight into why you’re so obnoxious.”
“Not sure we have enough time for you to figure that out. Come on,” I say, and she follows me without another word.
I lead her into the living room and point out all the features of my apartment—the framed team photos on the shelf, the fancy Barbie dollhouse I bought for June to play with when she comes over. The old mahogany coffee table I purchased from a small shop down in South Carolina, hauling it the five hundred miles back home by myself.
Emerson takes her time and studies every little detail. She stops at the antique clock on the wall. My board game collection and the couch in the middle of the room.
I wonder if I should’ve fluffed the pillows or thrown a blanket over the back to make it homier. It looks sad right now with the gray cushions against the gray walls.
It’s weird to stand here and let a woman pick through these parts of my life I’m not used to showing off. I’m normally stumbling home with my tongue down someone’s throat and my hand under their dress. Fingers curled around the waistband of her underwear and trying not to stub my toe as I carry her down the hall.
This is…
I don’t know what this is.
“What do you think?” I ask, and that old habit of seeking validation, of needing to hear if someone likes me, is pounding in my chest.
“It’s nice.” She runs her finger along the wood of the entertainment center and stops at the stack of puzzles in the corner. “You said you like puzzles.”
I brighten up. “Look at you paying attention. I love puzzles.”
“Is that your favorite thing to do when you’re not on the ice?”
“Is that your question of the day?”
“Yeah.” Emerson nods. She looks at me over her shoulder, and the smallest smile curves at the corners of her mouth. “As long as you don’t mind sharing.”
