A Groom of One’s Own: A Sweet Hockey RomCom
Chapter 8

Eli

The more I walk around Bailey’s complex, trying not to think about how she feels curled up against my chest or about her bare leg touching my arm, the angrier I get. It’s the secondary emotion, stemming from concern. But anger quickly bubbles up, overshadowing my worry.

This complex is a dump.

More than a dump. It would make dumps look like a Hilton.

First of all, there’s no security gate. Anyone could just drive in here, especially given its proximity to the highway. It’s not well-lit, partially because there aren’t a lot of lights, and partially because, out of the few it does have, they either don’t work at all or they’re flickering like they’ve been yanked straight out of a horror movie.

There’s clearly no security guard of any kind. No cameras. Essentially, we’re walking around a total death trap. A serial killer playground.

I don’t like it. At all.

As I walk toward the door Bailey indicated in her sleep-soft voice, I have an internal debate. Have I earned the right to say anything?

Bailey and I are tentative friends. Maybe definitely friends after the time spent together tonight. And if what she said before falling asleep in my car was for real, she agreed to be my fiancée.

For the moment, I’m trying to shelve my thoughts and questions about that, ignoring the weird flurry of hope in my chest battling the worry twisting in my gut. My focus is on getting Bailey home safely tonight.

But whatever part of my brain still connects to my very basal caveman ancestors wants to march back to my SUV, toss Bailey inside (gently), and drive her back to my house. After putting her seatbelt on, of course.

Safety first! Even when being a Neanderthal.

The part most likely steered by my frontal lobe tells me to think long and hard before trying to tell Bailey she can’t—sorry, shouldn’t—live somewhere without proper safety features. Mom’s always told me I’m too protective. I say there’s no such thing.

A thought pings around in my brain like a loose cog. If she’s serious about marrying me, it won’t be an issue for long. But I don’t know that I can count on the words that spilled out of Bailey when she was curled up in the front seat of my car with her eyes closed.

Will she even remember saying it? And if she does … did she mean it?

I don’t really want to ask that either, unsure whether I want the answer to be yes or no.

Actually marrying Bailey? The idea sits on the surface of my mind rather than sinking in. Because I never—not one single time—thought marrying someone so Mom and I could stay in the country was something I would do.

Sure, I tossed it around as an idea, joked about it with Bailey, confessed it to the guys and let them believe they were helping me on a wife hunt.

But at no time did it ever seem like it would become a tangible thing, a real possibility, a verifiable option involving a woman, a ring, and a marriage license.

Bailey shifts, her hands moving a little as she clings to my neck, her sigh soft and content. I clutch her a little tighter to my chest. The same cinnamon-cotton candy scent fills my nose, and I wonder if it’s her shampoo or body wash or some kind of perfume. It makes me want a cupcake.

I enjoyed tonight—more than I expected. I saw a different side of the woman who, up until now, occupied a solitary square in my mind. Bailey existed in the animal shelter, in scrubs, the shy woman who I liked to coax into smiling and blushing and talking. Now, the edges of that square have dissolved, and I’m not sure where she fits.

Other than in my arms. She definitely fits here. Which also is something I didn’t expect.

As though my thoughts are traveling by osmosis to Bailey and she agrees wholeheartedly about fitting here, she snuggles deeper into me. Burrowing, really, her nose landing somewhere near my collarbone.

“Are we there yet?” she asks through a huge yawn.

It drags a yawn out of me too, even though I’m wide awake. On high alert, because in this sketchy apartment complex, someone has to be. Nearby, I hear raised voices, an argument, mostly muffled behind closed doors. A semi blasts its horn on the highway, the sound startling me.

“Is this the right one? 4B?” I ask, glaring toward the darkest and most remote of all the apartments. I should shut up. I tell myself to shut up. I can’t shut up. “The one on the first floor, all the way at the end of the building near the woods. The one with all the lights burned out.”

My pointed questions, statements really, spoken in a voice that’s guitar-string tight, finally rouse Bailey enough to open her toffee brown eyes. Not that I can see the color right now. It’s too dark.

Standing in front of her door, we’re literally shrouded in a pool of shadow. The next working light has to be a good fifteen feet away. And it’s pulsing on and off, so dim the moths aren’t even interested.

“I put in an order for maintenance to fix it,” Bailey says.

That makes me feel worse, not better. “How long ago?”

A long pause. “Um, three months. Maybe four.”

I don’t realize I’ve tightened my arms around her, crushing her to my chest, until she taps my arm twice.

“You can put me down now, hockey player,” she murmurs.

Right.

Bending carefully, I angle Bailey until she’s standing. She smooths down her nightgown and takes a quick step away from me. I watch as she roots through her purse, presumably looking for keys. It would help if the light above her door wasn’t burned out.

She glances back at me, the barest of smiles on her lips. “Do you ever wear a coat?”

I glance down at my muumuu, which is surprisingly comfortable if not very seasonal. Especially right now, when all I’ve got on underneath is a pair of athletic shorts. I didn’t realize how warm Bailey was keeping me until she wasn’t cradled to my chest.

“No? I mean, sometimes when it’s really cold, I do. I tend to run hot.”

Bailey opens her mouth, then closes it and turns back to the hunt for her keys, forearm-deep in her purse. I really hope, considering my safety concerns, she usually walks to her apartment with her keys in hand. And maybe some mace.

“Do you have a taser?” I ask.

Bailey’s keys clatter to the ground. “What?”

And that’s when, as though conjured by all my imagined worst-case scenarios, a tall figure steps around the corner, gliding out of the shadows like some kind of wraith. Bailey shrieks and lobs her purse full force at the person’s face.

I’ll give her this—she may live in the most murdery apartment complex I’ve ever seen, but she’s got good instincts.

Right now, she also has me. Almost the moment the purse is thrown, I step between her and the wiry man who’s now clutching his face with a groan. My hands are curled into fists, my whole body coiled like a spring. It’s the moment before the puck drops, and I can almost feel the stick in my gloves.

I wish I had a stick right now. In a pinch, it would make a great weapon.

“Now, why’d you go and do that?” the man says.

“Jesse?” Bailey curls her hand around my arm and peers past me. I can feel the heat of her body against my back and hope she stays right there.

“Yeah,” the man groans, kicking at her purse. “Who’d you think it was?”

Bailey’s purse capsizes, spilling its contents everywhere. Receipts, a tiny notebook, pens, coins, and a fat wallet bursting at the seams. Either Bailey carries a lot of cash, or she has a problem with credit cards.

A tube of lipstick rolls to a stop at my feet. Bailey bends to pick it up, and I put a hand on her hip, gently urging her behind me again before I let go. It’s clear she knows this guy. But it’s still creepy as hell how he was waiting in the darkness for her.

I’m not letting Bailey anywhere near him. My instincts earlier may have been a bit on the caveman side, but they were also correct. This apartment complex is not safe.

“Who are you?” I demand.

Do I use my most intimidating voice? Absolutely I do.

Bailey gives my arm a squeeze, and I’m not sure if this means she likes the protective vibe or is telling me to back off. I’m going with option A.

Whether she likes it or she doesn’t, the protective vibe isn’t going anywhere. The dial is now set to maximum strength.

Until Bailey whispers, “He’s just my neighbor.”

Just her neighbor. Who steps out of the darkness late at night right when she happens to be coming home. Still weird. And suspect. I don’t dial back my protectiveness at all.

“Who are you?” the guy—Jesse, I guess—snaps. Then there’s a pause, and he leans forward. I can barely make him out, squinting through the darkness. His height and the slightness of his figure reminds me a bit of Gabe from The Office. “Wait—you’re that hockey player. Dude. Why are you wearing a muumuu?”

Bailey tries to step around me. This time, when I clasp her hip and maneuver her behind me, I don’t let go. Not even when she lets out a little huff of frustration. Or amusement? I’m not sure which. Instead, I squeeze her hip lightly, holding her steady.

I ignore both his statement and his question. “Why were you lurking outside Bailey’s apartment?”

“I wasn’t lurking. I was taking a walk.”

“At this hour? In the woods? Walking by Bailey’s apartment door?”

Her hands glide up my back until they rest just below my shoulders, warm and firm. My muscles start to loosen, little by little. But not fully. Because there will be no relaxing until we’re not having a conversation in almost pitch-black with a guy who takes midnight strolls past Bailey’s apartment door.

“That’s his place,” she whispers, pointing.

I glance over, keeping Jesse in view, to see the next apartment down. Okay, so maybe he has reason to pass her apartment. I still don’t like it.

Especially not when he asks, with venom in his voice, “Wait—are you two dating?”

We might be getting married, I think. But I don’t say that. And the press of Bailey’s hands on my back sends a signal that she’s got this. At least, I hope I’m reading this correctly.

“It’s late,” Bailey says softly. Much more kindly than I would. “Goodnight, Jesse.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

I watch until he’s back in his apartment. Bailey’s hands remain on my back until the lock engages, her palms slowly tracking back and forth. I like them there. She steadies me, and right now, I need a bit of steadying.

This has been a long night. I feel a little like Bailey’s purse: tipped over with everything inside me knocked loose and scattered.

“I don’t want you staying here.” This probably shouldn’t be the first thing I say when I release her hip and turn to face her. Already I miss the warm comfort of her hands on my back.

Her eyes narrow. “What?”

I tip my chin toward the broken light above her door, then the one that should light the walkway. “It’s not safe.”

“I live here,” she says, defensiveness edging through her voice.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

She sets her jaw and crosses her arms. But her eyes don’t match the rigid posture. She looks like she’s about to cry.

“This is what I can afford,” she says, lifting her chin, and it breaks me a little because I recognize the look.

For years, Mom raised me and my sister, Annie, in apartments like this. Ones with little to no security, near busy roads, with arguments you could hear outside. Without any support from my biological dad and none from family, Mom did the best she could. Annie and I knew we didn’t have a lot, but Mom made life as big and as fun as she could for us, keeping the worries and stresses I know she felt locked-up tight.

The thing about kids, though, is they know. Maybe not the specifics. But Annie and I picked up on her body language, her moods. We recognized the exhaustion behind her bright smiles and didn’t miss the way bills sometimes piled up or the pantry and fridge emptied out. It didn’t help that I picked an expensive sport.

I promised myself that if I ever went pro, I’d take care of Mom. Annie too, though she doesn’t want my help and prefers making her own way. It took some time because not all my contracts were super lucrative, but finally, because of my investments and because of the Appies, Mom and I are in a good place.

I find myself wanting to wrap Bailey up in that same protection. Not just because of the whole marriage thing. I can recognize this as a separate longing, a need to keep her safe. Tonight, Bailey has gone from acquaintance to actual friend. A very pretty friend. And once people move into my circle of friendship, I can’t help but want to move them into my circle of protection too.

I can also recognize how hard it can be to accept help, the sense of pride that comes from wanting to do it all alone. Of not wanting to seem weak and helpless while also being desperate for a hand.

I take a few beats to consider my words, crossing my arms over my chest. The temperature is finally starting to get to me. Probably because a light breeze just picked up, reminding me of how inappropriately I’m dressed for late fall in the mountains. The longer I wait, the longer I’m keeping Bailey out here too. She has a coat, but her nightgown isn’t meant for discussing potential marriage proposals outside in these temperatures.

“Do you remember what you said in the car?” I ask.

Slowly, Bailey nods. “Yes.”

“Did you mean it?”

Rather than answer, Bailey crouches down and starts shoveling things back into her purse. Something I wish I’d thought to do for her. I retrieve the lipstick that’s still near my foot. I squint to read the color name, curious what Bailey’s color is. Immediately, I feel stupid for checking. Also, it’s too dark to see.

When Bailey stands, turning to face me, I can’t read her expression any better than I could the lipstick label. Wordlessly, I hold it out to her. She hesitates, and when she finally reaches for it, her fingers brushing mine, I close my other hand around both of ours. Holding her there.

I want to repeat the question. Or ask another. I’ve got a whole line of questions. But I just stand here like a dummy, keeping her in place. Bailey’s hand feels so small in mine, her skin soft. I stroke my thumb over her knuckles, seeing her shiver in response. Or … maybe it’s just the fact that it’s cold and she’s in a nightgown.

She’s much too slow to answer. Which is probably an answer in and of itself. I’m shocked by the bitter taste of disappointment. I barely had time to even hope. And what, exactly, was I really hopeful about?

I release her hand and the lipstick, then step back. “I’ll just⁠—”

“Yes,” Bailey says. “I meant it.”

She pauses, as though giving her words a moment to land. They do.

My pulse kicks up and I swallow fast. Bailey really offered—she actually said—she’d be willing to … marry me?

The quick thrill is steamrolled almost immediately by a whole host of questions and worries. Things that I hadn’t thought to consider because marrying a woman I barely know wasn’t really a consideration.

I say nothing, my brain firing too fast to corral words into any kind of order.

“I have a lot of questions, and there are a lot of things we should probably discuss,” Bailey continues. “But … yes. If you need someone to do this so you can stay, so your mom can stay, I’ll be that person for you, Eli.”

The light breeze chooses this moment to really pick up, blowing my muumuu well higher than feels appropriate. Even if I do have on shorts underneath. They’re the only shorts I had in my car, and they’re short. Even in the dim light, my legs are ghostly white.

Fantastic. I tug down the hem, and Bailey coughs, trying and failing to hide a giggle.

“Okay,” I say, agreeing with a stupid, two-syllable word to something life-alteringly large.

“Okay.” Bailey’s smile is stolen by another yawn. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

“My phone’s in the car, but I can give you my number?”

This feels so backwards, giving Bailey my phone number after she’s just agreed to marry me. Marry me. The words are electric, jolting me every time the idea moves through my mind. It’s not a wholly unpleasant feeling, which surprises me.

Should I hug her goodnight? Kiss her on the cheek? I don’t know how to end an accidental, sort-of first date involving a platonic marriage agreement.

I hold out my hand. Stupidly.

Bailey glances down at it for a moment before shaking it. Once. Firmly. Like we’ve just made some kind of bet. I’m grateful for the darkness covering the flush I’m sure has risen in my cheeks. Her smile is highly amused, but then softens to something a little more tender.

“Thank you,” she says. “For worrying about me. Jesse’s harmless, but⁠—”

“Is he?”

She nods. “Yes. A little odd, and sometimes a bit snappy. But he’s all bark. No bite. Not unlike Roscoe.”

I grin at this. Roscoe is one of the first dogs I remember meeting. He’s still there, so I get to say hi every so often. Apparently, it’s hard to find someone to adopt a dog with no teeth. Especially when he hates everyone on sight—except me, whom he only just tolerates. He still growls and gums the heck out of me. I know if he had teeth, he would use them.

“I like Roscoe better,” I say, and Bailey laughs.

“You and me both.” I glance back toward Jesse’s apartment again, imagining him on the other side, ear pressed to the door.

“He won’t bother me,” Bailey says. “I’m safe. I’ll be fine.”

I don’t argue. But nothing about this situation feels safe or fine. “Okay.”

“Thank you for making my night so special,” she says. “Best birthday ever.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Bailey smiles, then turns away, unlocking her door.

I want to go inside first, just to check and make sure it’s safe. To open closet doors and crouch to look under the bed. Test the windows. Lock every door.

I force my feet to stay planted. I can’t say the same for my mouth. “Is there a patio? A back door?”

Bailey pauses, one hand on the door as she gives me a glance over her shoulder. “A small patio. There’s a sliding glass door. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Because it’s a first-floor apartment with no security and there’s a sliding glass door and woods nearby and a guy who maybe is or isn’t as harmless as Roscoe. That’s why.

“Okay. I’ll text you tomorrow so we can talk about … everything,” she says.

“Goodnight, Leelee.”

She smiles. “’Night, hockey player.”

I wait to hear the sound of her deadbolt engage before I jog back to my SUV and grab my phone, dialing Van and hoping he’s alone.

He answers on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“I need a favor,” I say.

“What kind of favor?”

“The kind involving being a bodyguard for the night.”

“Cool.”

What people may not know about Van is that he’s this guy. The one you call when you need a favor like this at this hour. The one who will say yes before he even knows what he’s being asked to do. Especially if it involves protecting someone. He almost rivals me in that department.

“I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there and wear warm clothes. If you have a sleeping bag, bring it. Two, if possible. Or blankets.”

Van laughs. “Are we camping?”

“More of a stakeout.”

I explain about bringing Bailey back home, the lack of security at her complex, and a strange neighbor who likes taking walks in the darkness that just so happen to mean arriving home around when she does.

When Van speaks again, all traces of amusement are gone from his voice. “On my way.”

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