Page 12 of The Labor Date
10
WINSTON
Perched highon my cat tree one morning, I look down like the emperor I am, tail twitching with satisfaction. Below me, Jerk-face howls in horror, tearing through his hockey gear bag like a man who just found a dead rat inside.
Not a rat. Better. A carefully placed deposit, delivered with precision and malice. Right between his skates and gloves. The stench of victory wafts upward, sweet as salmon treats.
“Are you kidding me?” he groans, holding up the soiled gear like it’s evidence at a crime scene. His face is priceless—disgust, frustration, defeat—all rolled into one.
Too bad Holly had already left for her hair appointment and didn’t get to see this.
He curses at me, storming off toward the laundry room, something about having to hurry or he’ll be late to practice. Words, words, words.
I yawn and stretch luxuriously, kneading the perch with my claws. A giant scoreboard flashes in my mind: Cat 2, Scott 2.
The game continues.
11
HOLLY
I sitat a small table by the window of Peak to Perk, hands wrapped around my mug only to give them warmth. The caramel latte is almost too pretty to drink. The foam decoration on top is in the shape of a heart—so cute, I don’t want to disturb it. And I know why. I’m falling a little too fast for Scott.
I can’t help it. His cocky ways, and that hard body of his, and how he looks at me like I’m something special are addictive. But a guy like him doesn’t settle down, does he? He talks a lot about his goals in professional hockey, but I know players get traded sometimes from team to team.
What would I do? Follow him around the states with Winston in tow? No, our life is in Hollywood when we’re not on a set somewhere else.
I sigh. I’ve always been practical in love, which might be my downfall. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up a lonely cat lady, not that there’s anything wrong with that. And I do have a nice collection of battery-operated toys to keep me satisfied when needed.
Scott Sanderson has been living under my roof for a month, though, and every time he looks at me, my body betrays me with butterflies and heat. That’s something no toy can produce.I promised myself after Peter I wouldn’t fall for a man so easily again. But Scott makes it hard to remember why.
I stare deep into the foam heart, hoping it might whisper answers I don’t have, when I should be working. I have plenty to do with emails, calls, and managing Winston’s schedule. But I received an unavoidable message this morning, or I wouldn’t be here to meet with a man I don’t want to face today.
Movement outside the window jolts me. I recognize the sleek truck pulling into the space beside my car. My breath catches. Scott’s grin flashes as soon as he spots me, and my stomach flips. I lift my hand in a wave, foolishly girlish. He waves back and pushes through the door like he belongs here.
My eyes dart to the men’s restroom. Scott suddenly showing up here makes things complicated.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning down to press a quick kiss against my cheek before sliding into the seat across from me. My pulse races. “Saw your Mercedes out front. Kind of hard to miss in a town like this. Thought I’d stop and say hi.”
I give the faintest smile, setting my cup down. “I had a couple of hours to kill while Winston’s at his Reiki session.”
“You found someone practicing Reiki around here?” Scott chuckles, shaking his head.
“You should try it. It helps the body relieve stress and balance energy flow.”
His eyes soften, covering my hand with his. “I didn’t stop here to talk about the latest health trends. Come to dinner with me tonight. Just us. No cat, no distractions.”
Before I can answer, I see the bathroom door open and the man who steps out. In seconds, his shadow falls across the table, and then he takes the seat next to me.
“Um, Scott, this is Douglas. Daddy, this is a friend of mine. Scott Sanderson. He plays for the new hockey team, the Frostbite.”
The two men have a stare-off. Scott’s posture stiffens under the weight of my father’s glare.
“Hello, sir,” he says, making the first move, reaching across the table with a steady hand.
Dad grips it as if they’re in a power struggle. “Hockey? Interesting.” That’s all he says, then leans back. His disapproval clear as he side-eyes me.
“Yes, it is. And the way we’ve been practicing, I think the team has a real shot at the cup.” Scott’s canned response is something players probably use in public all the time. But there’s so much he doesn’t know about my father, like how he couldn't care less. Money and power are the only two things he loves.
