A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 7

Bailey

I don’t know what I expected—not that I expected in any way to be going to the house Eli apparently shares with his mother—but it was not this charming bungalow. Hanging baskets overflow with ferns and the door is painted flamingo pink. I’m sure it would all be more cheerful during the day or if the porch lights were on.

Don’t like his house! I tell myself, with as fierce of an internal voice as I can. You cannot like Eli and his house too!

But it’s too late. I like him and his adorable, perfect house.

“Mom chose the color,” Eli mutters, fumbling with his keys.

I almost tease him about it, asking him if he holds to the stereotype that pink is a feminine color. But I don’t know if Eli is the kind of person whose tension eases with jokes or if it would make him wind tighter, adding more of an edge.

He’s been intensely focused since his mom called. I’m sure he knows where the brake is, but he opted to use it sparingly on the twenty-minute drive. I couldn’t quite bring myself to place my hand on his arm or shoulder, even though I sense touch is important to him.

But I did allow myself to indulge in stolen glances, watching the way Eli’s jaw clenched in the glow of streetlights and headlights. My hands, balled into sweaty fists in my coat pockets, ached to smooth away the lines bracketing his mouth.

His nerves transferred to me on the drive, and there’s a nervous fluttering inside me. I don’t know what kind of emergency this is, or even if emergencies with his mom are a normal thing. Health stuff? Mental health stuff? A burglary? Hopefully, she’d call the police in that case. While there are a lot of cars parked along the street, not one has red and blue lights.

Eli pushes open the door, and when he glances back to make sure I’m following, I scurry after him.

“Mom? What’s the emergency?” He flicks the switch on the wall just inside the door once, twice, then three times in quick succession, frowning when the hallway stays swathed in darkness. The only light comes from the end of the hall, a soft, flickering glow.

“In here,” a melodic voice calls from somewhere in the back of the house. One that does not sound in any way like it’s in crisis.

Eli must sense this too because his shoulders drop as he sighs, muttering something under his breath about crying wolf. His eyes meet mine in the dim hallway light. “I’m sorry in advance,” he says.

I don’t get a chance to ask what for. His shoes are loud, the hardwoods creaking out a chorus of complaints as he stomps toward the back of the house. I’m a few steps behind, drinking in details as my eyes adjust to the light. I was hoping for framed photos, but instead I get strange artwork in glass frames: a swatch of ripped denim, dozens of ticket stubs lined up in neat rows, and a framed receipt I can’t quite read.

I want to linger, squinting in the dark at the tiny print on the faded paper, but I hear an excited voice say, “You brought someone with you?” The voice pitches higher. “A woman? Well, where is she?”

Eli’s voice is too quiet for me to make out the words, only the low rumble that tugs at me like a kite string. I hesitate outside the open door, the toes of my ankle boots just shy of the square of light cast from the doorway. It’s clear even though my view is of one corner of the room—all bookshelves—that there are other people in the room. The low murmur of voices, the sound of a glass being set down on a table.

One more brave thing, I tell myself, drawing on the birthday wish I didn’t make to help my feet move again.

But before I’ve taken a step, a woman rushes through the door, almost knocking me over. There’s a gasp, and then I’m receiving perhaps the best hug of my entire life.

Tears prick my eyes for no logical reason, and I try to somehow suck them back into my tear ducts before she releases me. There’s something about a genuine hug from someone you’ve just met—or in this case, not yet met. No pretense, no prerequisites. Completely unearned. I hug her back, my hands gripping her sweater.

I somehow manage to not look like someone about to burst into inappropriate tears when she pulls back, openly appraising me with a soft smile before she tugs me into the room.

Which is completely full of women. Every chair—many of which look as though they’ve been dragged from other rooms—and cushion, even some of the floor space is taken up. Eli stands in the center of the room, rubbing the back of his neck and looking as though he has many, many regrets.

“Well, aren’t you just perfect,” Eli’s mom whispers. There is a soft chorus of aws around the room, and my cheeks invent a new shade of red.

“Mom,” Eli hisses, pressing his fists in his eyes.

But she only grips my hand with unrelenting force as she openly stares at me. Her hair probably used to be the same pure blond as Eli’s, though now it’s liberally streaked with snowy white and knotted on top of her head. They share the same blue eyes too, but their facial features don’t have a strong resemblance.

Her smile is wide, clearly with so many wrong ideas in her mind.

It’s at this point I consider how we’re dressed.

I’ll blame not thinking about this beforehand on the tension strung tight as Eli rushed home for the supposed emergency. At least my coat hides some of the nightgown. I pull it tighter with the one hand I still have the freedom to move.

“Um,” I start.

Leaning close, she says, “Don’t explain. It’s more fun that way.”

“Mom,” Eli groans. “Let Bailey breathe.”

“Let me have a moment, Elias. This is the first woman you’ve brought home in … well, ever. I should get a chance to appreciate it.”

My eyes dart to Eli’s. The tips of his ears flush red, and he glances away from me quickly. Elias? The first woman he’s brought home?

Really?

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Bailey.” She gives my hand a last squeeze before finally letting go. I think my fingers have gone to sleep. “I’m Margaret. Everyone calls me Maggie.”

“Or Magpie,” Eli says. “Magnanimous. Margo.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “Quiet, Elipses.”

Okay, I get it—their thing is messing with each other’s names. It’s … kind of adorable.

“And this”—Maggie sweeps an arm wide, gesturing to the room full of women, all grinning, most waving—“is book club.”

I manage a small wave with the hand that still works, and then Eli steps between Maggie and me. “Tell me about this electrical emergency.”

Maggie shrugs. “Started a little while ago. Half the lights in the house just don’t work.”

There are candles on the coffee table, none matching. From the scent lingering in the air, at least one is pumpkin spice, another vanilla.

Eli pulls the cords on the ceiling fan. The blades spin and stop, but the lights don’t click on. He points above the mantel, where one recessed light shines brightly. “That one still works. And the power is still on. I hear the heater.”

Maggie shrugs again. The move feels a little too practiced, but it’s not my place to say. “It’s the strangest thing. Some work, some don’t. I don’t know if it’s a power surge or something with the breaker box.” She laughs. “To tell the truth, I don’t know where the breaker box is.”

“It’s in the kitchen. I’ll check.” Eli meets my eyes. Hesitantly, he asks, “Will you be okay?”

“Of course she’ll be okay!” Maggie links her arm through mine. “She’s with me.”

From the set of his jaw, I get the sense that’s exactly why Eli asked. With a heaving sigh, he walks out, presumably toward the kitchen. It’s funny to see him like this. Different from his normal brightness or even the low mood when he came to the shelter the other day. This is more of a gruff concern, his worry working itself out in grumpiness.

The room holds its breath while he goes. Then, it erupts into sound and motion as soon as he’s gone. Voices clatter together like dishes in the sink after a meal, and I’m ushered to the couch where two women shift apart to make room for Maggie and me—barely.

If I were claustrophobic at all, I’d be breathing into a paper bag right now. As it is, my shyness rears its head, and my tongue cements itself to the roof of my mouth.

“Would you like something to drink?” Maggie asks. “Water, tea, wine?”

“Vodka?” a woman asks from her seat on the floor. Her face is heavily lined, her hair bright purple. A red bra peeks out from a hole in her ripped Metallica t-shirt.

“There’s also decaf coffee,” another woman says, holding up a mug that reads Deck the Falls with a fall leaf pattern.

“We’re big drinkers at book club,” Maggie says. “Something for everyone. What’ll it be?”

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice scratchy, sounding almost unused. My heartbeat is louder in my ears than my words.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Maggie says, then proceeds to introduce everyone in the room, assuring me it’s fine if I forget.

Turns out there are only nine women. It feels like dozens, perhaps because the room is so small and overcrowded with furniture. I only remember one name, Rachel, and only because it was my mother’s name. She’s seated beside me and, thankfully, does not remind me of my mother in the slightest. This Rachel is tall and full of angles: sharp nose, firm jaw, a pointy shoulder pressing into mine. But her smile is kind, her eyes gentle.

My mother was short like me and soft everywhere, from her gentle curls to her creamy skin and wide hips. Every so often, growing greedy for affection, I’d sink into her lap while she was reading, trying to stay still enough to be forgotten. Hoping she wouldn’t shoo me away so she could work. The only thing not soft about her was her voice, which I remember being as tight as a guitar string.

Maggie leans into me. “Why don’t you tell us how you met my son? I didn’t even know he was on a date tonight.”

Her expression is so earnest and so hopeful, I don’t want to explain that it wasn’t a date but more of a chance meeting turned birthday celebration. So … I don’t.

“Eli volunteers at the animal shelter where I work,” I explain.

Not wholly the truth, at least not officially, but probably easier to explain than the reality. He at least has the volunteer paperwork, even if he never plans to bring it back.

Maggie’s eyes widen. So does her smile. The tiniest dimple appears in one cheek. “You work at the shelter?”

I nod, and she goes on to talk about how much Eli has always loved dogs, but they never had one because she was a single mom and too many apartments don’t allow it. I’m on the cusp of getting Eli’s whole life story, but he walks into the room.

“I can’t find anything.” He found a hat somewhere, and it’s jammed down low, shading his eyes. His hands are in fists on his hips. “It’s not the breakers. It’s not even whole rooms or particular sockets. It seems totally random. Almost … intentional.”

Next to me, Maggie shifts, settling deeper into the sofa and taking a drink before answering. “How strange,” Maggie says. “Then again, it is an old house.”

Eli’s not buying it. Neither am I. Maggie seems far too delighted with the whole situation and not in the least concerned about why half the lights in the house aren’t working. Heaving a sigh, Eli walks over to a tall floor lamp in the corner and starts fiddling with the cord.

“What kind of books do you read?” I ask, desperately needing the focus in the room to be anywhere other than me.

“Our books vary as much as our drink choices,” the purple-haired woman on the floor says. “And unlike some book clubs, we do actually read and discuss books.”

“Among other things,” Maggie says, then turns to me. “We all suffer from chronic illness of one kind or another. Or several.”

“Except me.” Beside me, Rachel touches her chest. “Nurse practitioner.”

“She’s here in case someone dies,” says a woman in a floppy hat.

Maggie shakes a finger. “Not true! We just all love Rachel. And remember–dying isn’t allowed during book club. It’s in the rules.”

What are the other rules? I find myself wondering.

“Fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis for me,” Maggie says cheerfully, like she’s announcing a prize she’s won. “Though we try to keep that kind of talk out of these evenings. Can you believe they wouldn’t let me name our group the Chronic-Ills of Narnia? Get it—chronic ills? Chronicles? Such a missed opportunity.”

A woman with closely cropped white hair and a tiny nose ring presses a mug of tea into my hands. I don’t protest, though I didn’t ask for anything and I didn’t notice anyone leaving the room to make it. When I lift the mug to my nose, it smells like Christmas morning.

“Cinnamon herbal tea,” Maggie says. “Decaf so it won’t keep you up.” Her gaze slides to Eli, then back to me. Her smile is sly. “But if you have late night plans, I could find you something with caffeine, I’m sure.”

I take a sip of tea, which is thankfully just the right temperature to save me from having to respond. Maggie reminds me of Eli—overwhelming in the best kind of way. Still, there is a lot to process. All the new faces, the names I’ve forgotten, the various unnamed chronic illnesses I’ll now be wondering about. I have some googling to do.

Suddenly, the lamp Eli’s been messing with turns on, brightening the whole room. A few women gasp. And then they all clap, like Eli just performed a perfectly executed magic trick.

Maggie grins. “Well, would you look at that! It’s a miracle.”

Eli stares at the lamp for a few seconds, then slowly turns to his mom with narrowed eyes. Keeping his gaze fixed on her, he walks to the center of the room and reaches up toward the ceiling fan. But instead of pulling the cord again, he reaches inside one of the glass globes and gives the light bulb a few turns. It immediately turns on.

“You solved the electrical issue!” Maggie says. “Thank goodness!”

“Mom,” Eli says slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes are narrowed, but I can see the amusement in the tilt of his lips. “There is no electrical issue. The light bulbs have all been loosened just enough not to work. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

Maggie presses a hand to her chest. “Me? Heavens no. Why would I go around unscrewing light bulbs? Who has time for that? Maybe we have a poltergeist.”

I stifle a giggle, dropping my gaze to my mug of tea before glancing back up at Eli. He shoots me a look that’s half apology and half exasperation before stomping out of the room, presumably tightening all the light bulbs in the house.

“There’s no poltergeist,” Maggie whispers, leaning close. “I just wanted to meet you. When Eli texted he was taking someone—a woman—out for her birthday, I had to orchestrate something. It’s what a good mother does.”

“I think my therapist would have something to say about that,” the purple-haired woman points out.

“You unscrewed all the light bulbs in the house so you could meet me?” I ask.

“Just the easy to reach ones. Made it a little more of a mystery to figure out since it wasn’t all the lights.” Maggie grins deviously, and I find myself smiling right back. “I am of the opinion that if you really want something, you sometimes have to make your own luck, even if it’s risky.”

I’d like to have her write that down on an index card so I could stick it on my fridge.

“Mom,” Eli mutters from the doorway. “Please. You can’t do things like this.”

“Like what, Elisha?”

He only shakes his head. “Bailey, I’d better get you home.”

Just the mention of home has me yawning. Still, I hate to think about this night ending. Hands down, it was the best birthday of my life.

“She hasn’t finished her tea,” Maggie protests.

“I’ll give her one of my travel mugs,” Eli says. Before he disappears into the kitchen, he waves goodbye, shooting the women a look just as disapproving as the one he gave Maggie.

“You can join us any time,” Maggie says. “Chronic illness or not. Do you read?”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Good. What’s your number? I’ll put it in my phone.”

We’ve barely exchanged numbers when Eli appears. I stand, and Maggie does too. Eli pours my tea into the travel mug while Maggie wraps me in another hug.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon,” she says. “Very soon. With or without my son. You don’t need him as an excuse. And the offer to join book club is always open.”

She releases me and steps right into Eli’s open arms. “I love you,” he tells her. “Even if you’re conniving and nosy.”

“You say conniving and nosy but all I hear is caring and concerned,” Maggie says, turning her head so she can give me a wink.

I’ve hardly buckled my seat belt and plugged my apartment complex’s address into Eli’s GPS when my phone buzzes. Once, then again and again and again. When I glance down at the screen, I’m surprised to see six new texts, all from Maggie.

“My mom loves GIFs,” Eli says, his lips curling up in a smile. “And memes. You might be sorry you gave her your number.”

I doubt that. Losing my mom and dad when I hardly felt like an adult myself left a gaping, parent-sized wound inside me. Maggie just stitched it up part-way with a hug, a few kind words, and an invitation to join her book club.

As much as I know for certain my parents loved me, open affection was not a thing in our household, physical or verbal. Love was just a thing we all understood to be true. A given, like the way you trust the load-bearing walls will keep the house from crumbling down around you even if you don’t ever really think about or acknowledge them.

But I’ve always been a child who craved these givens, and I’m not sure my parents ever understood that, even when I tried to tell them as an adult.

I decide to save Maggie’s texts for later, sliding my phone into my purse. Exhaustion falls over me, a heavy snowdrift of a feeling, and my eyes flutter closed as I snuggle into Eli’s leather seats.

“Cold?” he asks, and I nod without opening my eyes. “I’ll turn on the seat warmers.”

Within moments, I groan softly as warmth radiates through the bottom and back of the seat. “Thank you,” I say through another yawn. They’re coming rapid-fire now, like the tail end of a fireworks show, one right after another.

“I just pushed a button for the seat warmer.” Eli sounds amused.

“No, I mean for everything. The drinks, the Canadian birthday extravaganza, all of it.”

He snorts. “Don’t forget the nightgown.”

“I think I prefer your muumuu.” I tug at the hem, running my fingertip along the ruffle at the bottom.

Eli fiddles with the radio and settles on an indie rock station. The acoustic guitar lulls me toward dreamland, though my brain wants to keep circling back to one niggling worry.

“Does your mom know about⁠—”

“No.”

“What will she do?” I ask without opening my eyes. I’m not sure I could if I tried. They’re sandbag heavy, and I’m sleep-weak. “If you have to go back to Canada.”

Eli doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, I jolt, realizing I started to doze.

“She won’t stay here without me. Even if she’s built a good life here. She’ll go where I go.”

I think of Maggie’s bright smile, the room tonight crowded with love. And support, probably, considering what she said about chronic illness. I don’t know much about fibromyalgia or rheumatoid arthritis, but I can’t help but wonder if I happened to see one of Maggie’s good days.

“Is she okay? With her health, I mean.”

“She has good and bad days. We go to Asheville a few times a month for different treatments. A lot of doctors don’t really diagnose or deal with chronic illnesses. Especially in women. This has been the best place we’ve found for support. Not just because of her book club. But it does help.”

I press my hand to my throat, wishing that would ease the ache there. It doesn’t.

Eli continues, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, “I know it might seem weird that I’m so close to my mom, but she’s amazing and did so much for me when I was growing up.”

“I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s pretty great.”

“I’ll do everything I can to make her happy,” Eli says quietly.

Even commit fraud, I think.

It’s in this moment I realize that Eli doesn’t just want to stay in Harvest Hollow for himself. In fact, it may not even be the primary reason. If he and his mom are this close, he wants to stay so she doesn’t have to leave. A deep ache settles into my bones.

“How would it work?” The question slides out easier when I’m drifting in this state of semi-sleep. “The marriage thing.”

I’ve heard it said that anyone would do anything given the right set of circumstances.

Like, you might not think you’d rob a Wendy’s for a Frosty and some cheesy bacon fries … but spend a few weeks stranded on a desert island with only coconuts for sustenance, and you might change your mind about thievery. That’s just one hypothetical.

Another not-so hypothetical: I never thought I’d be tempted to marry someone for money.

I probably wouldn’t have even dreamed up my current scenario. The desert-island-Wendy’s situation is far more likely. Which is saying something, considering I live about six hours from the nearest beach.

But here I am, sitting in an awkwardly silent car with Eli, turning over his offer in my mind. Asking questions about it out loud. Keeping my eyes closed because I’m a coward.

Even without looking, I am aware of a shift, the tension vibrating between us. I sense it the way I’ve always insisted I can smell snow in the air.

“It would need to be a real marriage,” Eli says finally. “I’d need the certificate, for starters. Everything else is … negotiable.”

I’m sure he means practical things: the wedding itself, the housing particulars, how long this would last. But my hazy mind goes to other negotiable things: whether it would include kissing, sharing a room, making public appearances pretending to be a real couple.

“It’s a huge ask,” Eli continues. “And I don’t have much to offer other than … money.” His voice sours with this last part, like he plucked one of the lemons from his muumuu and took a big bite.

That’s not true, I think. He has lots of things I want, none of which have to do with money. The trouble is, they’re not things I think he wants from me.

And also … I do need money. Every time I walk past the desk in my bedroom where the letter from my grandmother’s facility is stuffed in a drawer, I feel like I’m going to dry heave. Several times lately, I’ve considered giving up on vet school altogether, since I’ll be paying off loans until I’ve got gray hair. Or no hair.

The idea of having to worry less, of sharing this burden with someone else … well. I hate the wolfish desperation clawing at the pit of my stomach when I think about it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t think minor league players made all that much money.”

Eli laughs, and the car slows. We’re probably at a red light, nearing my house. I wish now I’d given him the wrong address for his GPS, sent us on a wild goose chase so I could enjoy his company and his heated seats.

“I’m really good with the stock market,” he says, and I’m not sure he could have said anything that would have shocked me more.

I’ve never understood anything about the stock market other than to know Martha Stewart went to prison because she somehow cheated the system. It’s not something I’d have immediately placed in the box of things I know about Eli.

But okay. Eli—Hot Puppy Guy—is a stock market person. Which means in addition to everything else he’s got going on, he’s smart too.

Unfair.

“I handle a lot of investments for the guys,” he says, and the word investments should not sound sexy. “Plus, the Appies get a lot of endorsements because of social media. We’re not the typical minor league team.”

I have more questions, but they’re tumbling over one another then getting lost in the soft edges of my current sleepy state.

“Do you,” Eli starts, then pauses. “Are, uh, finances an issue?”

I want to laugh. Because “issue” is a bit of an understatement. But Shannon already brought up my car. Exactly how many broken-down areas of my life do I want to reveal tonight?

“Vet school is expensive,” I say. “I’ve been saving so I’m not buried in student loans.”

I peek over, a little afraid but needing to see Eli’s reaction to this. He’s frowning, and I fully expect to hear him ask exactly how expensive vet school is or to admit he was thinking about something less.

Instead, he says, “Are you planning to move? For vet school, I mean.”

I close my eyes again, letting myself relax again in the warm hug of the heated seat. “I’m applying to UNC-Asheville and Tennessee, so I’ll stay here.” I pause, considering my words. But sleepiness has loosened my inhibitions. Or maybe just my tongue. “My grandmother lives here in an assisted living facility. I don’t really want to leave her alone.”

Even if she couldn’t care less. The last time I went to see her, she called me Jezebel and tossed a large-print edition of a Harlequin romance at my head.

“Are you her only family?”

I know the question Eli’s really asking, and I appreciate the careful way he asked. It makes me wonder about his own family situation. People with happy and healthy relationships with both living parents are more likely to ask things like What about your parents?

“My mom and dad died in a car crash two years ago,” I tell him, feeling like a terrible person when I yawn immediately after.

My eyes crack open as Eli sets his hand over mine, curling his fingers over my knuckles. His thumb does a quick sweep over the skin at my wrist, making me shiver. He only glances away from the road for a second to meet my gaze, but his eyes are kind. After a moment, he releases my hand, and I hold back the sound of protest that wants to escape at the loss of contact.

“I’m sorry, Bailey. That’s … wow. I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks.”

I blow out a shaky breath and let my eyes fall closed again. Confessions are easier when I can’t see his handsome jaw in the dim light from the dashboard. His car, I couldn’t help but notice when he first turned it on, has exactly zero maintenance lights flashing.

“So, you’re the one who takes care of your grandmother?” he asks.

“Financially,” I clarify.

“Did your parents have a trust or something set up?” His voice is so hopeful.

Kind of like I was when I first walked into the lawyer’s office to discuss my parents’ estate. I mean, I was also broken and sad and kind of a walking zombie, but I was hopeful at least for some kind of financial boon to help keep me afloat while I drifted in grief.

“My parents were apparently not great at financial things. They had a reverse mortgage on their house.” I don’t need to explain because the noise Eli makes assures me that in addition to stocks, he has some understanding of what that means. “There was very little left over after everything was settled.”

So, now Eli can guess exactly how sad my financial state of affairs is. Which is to say: very sad.

The kind of sad that might make a person think about getting married in exchange for some kind of financial benefit. Honestly? The idea of just not doing everything alone appeals to me as much as the ease of the monetary strain.

My thoughts have the kind of soft haze of near-sleep, but I can clearly picture the pink door on Eli’s house. The way his mom hugged me, the offer to join her book club.

All that might all go away if Eli has to go back to Canada, his mom with him. No more book club. No more hockey. No more pink door. Or centaurs.

Wait—centaurs?

“Who’s taking care of you, Bailey?”

Eli’s words settle over me, soft as snowfall, only warm not cold.

“No one,” I murmur.

“I could,” Eli says, and now I’m really not sure if I’m dreaming. Because this is the exact kind of thing I wish someone would tell me. “I would.”

A single, solid thought breaks the surface as I’m slipping down, down, down.

“I’ll do it,” I say, a smile on my lips. Because I’m proud of myself for being brave. For wanting something and then saying so. Out loud.

Unless I’m dreaming?

“I’ll marry you, hockey player.”

I think Eli responds, but his words slip into merely a steady rumbling ribbon of bass, pairing with the hum of the tires on the road and the cocooning warmth of the seat as my mind drifts and then winks out.

A whispered voice, low and close. Hands scooping me up. A warm, safe chest. One I want to nuzzle into, so I do. I could stay right here forever. A masculine scent—one that calls to mind cozy fires and cinnamon rolls.

A lovely, lovely dream. I sigh, allowing myself to fall deeper into the warm comfort, and the sway of calming motion, a soothing drug.

“Which one is your apartment, Leelee?”

Apartment? My dreams don’t usually include my dingy apartment. Something tugs at me, pulling me up from sleep. A niggling thought that grows louder and more insistent until it yanks me completely out of sleep and into the present moment.

Where I’m currently being held against a firm, solid chest encased in a scratchy muumuu.

Eli. Eli is carrying me in his arms across the parking lot of my apartment complex.

I am utterly embarrassed at the way my hands are linked around Eli’s neck, as though even in my sleep, I wanted to get closer to him. My cheek is pressed against a swath of skin just above the collar of the muumuu, which must have slipped while he carried me. He smells better than any birthday cake could. I am shamelessly plastered against the man.

I can’t bring myself to look at him. I also can’t bring myself to move, though I should. I should take my hands away from his neck where my fingertips brush against the longer strands of his hair. I should lift my cheek from his chest, insist he put me down on my feet. I’m an adult. I can walk.

But I don’t want to.

I’d like to cling to this moment as long as possible. To what felt so much like a dream, because it is like a dream: the famous hockey player who just spent the evening making my birthday so special. Making me feel special.

“Did you call me Leelee?” I ask, for some reason zeroing in on the least important part of this whole situation.

“Do you like it?” he asks. “I was trying to think of a nickname for you.”

He’s trying to think of a nickname for me. This tiny fact has no business making me so happy.

“Bay sounds like either a body of water or the sound a beagle makes.”

I snort. “Yeah, let’s avoid that. So, Leelee.” I test the name out. It’s cute. Sweet.

“I think it suits you.”

Well, in that case…

“I mean, if you don’t mind,” he adds.

“I like it.”

“Good. Now, I really need to know where I’m going. I think I’ve walked by the same building three times. But I’m not sure because they all look the same.”

They do. I guess that’s true of all apartment complexes, but it’s especially true here. In a town so filled with charm like Harvest Hollow, I think they had to actually pump in ugly to make this complex, with its stark brick buildings and windows that seem way too small.

I lift my head from Eli’s warm chest to see where we are. “That one.” I point, then decide to lay my head back on his chest. Why not?

I’m sure that’s the post-midnight Bailey talking. The one with fewer inhibitions. The one who wants to take both hands and wring every bit I can out of this moment. The one who⁠—

Wait, wait, wait. I freeze as I remember, every muscle, even the ones I didn’t know I had, constricting until I’m a block of stone. The one who said she’d marry Eli.

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