If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(20)

Fucking hell.

“Oodonikeurs?” she says around her bite.

I raise an eyebrow, sipping from my chocolate milkshake that Ziggy’s helped herself to at least half of. “Believe it or not, I didn’t quite catch that.”

She swallows, then says, “Sorry. You don’t like yours?” She nods toward my barely touched BLT.

I stare down at the sandwich, my stomach tightening. Before this one, I hadn’t had a BLT since the day my dad left. He loved them. I have few memories of him before he walked out on my mom and me—he was a professional hockey player, often on the road for games, but I remember the smell of bacon and toasted bread, eating a grilled cheese at the table while he chowed down on his beloved BLT. I’ve hated the sight and smell of BLTs ever since. But after I, for some inexplicable reason, asked Ziggy as we walked into the diner what she liked to eat here, and she said their BLT was the best she’d ever had, I ended up telling Stevie I’d take one.

The worst part is Ziggy’s right. It’s fucking good. I stare at the sandwich, then pick it up and take another bite. This bite’s even better than the last, the thick-sliced tomato having softened the crisp, toasted bread; smoky bacon mingled with rich mayonnaise, still a bite of crunch from the romaine lettuce.

I hate it. And I love it. Shit, I need a drink.

“It’s good,” I admit to her, dropping the sandwich back in its carton, brushing off my hands. “I’m just…slow finding my appetite.”

She turns my way, sharp green eyes examining me. “Sort of like me being seen in the diner, you and nourishing yourself, huh?”

I stop chewing, my chest tightening as I remember what she said about being seen in the diner, being comfortable with it.

It’s hard. Change…it takes time.

Staring down at the sandwich, I shrug. “Maybe.”

“When you have hockey, it’s easier to make good choices, isn’t it? But when it’s off-season, you don’t make those good choices, because you don’t think you deserve good things. You only do it because that makes hockey possible.”

I throw her a look, and say around my bite, exasperated, “All right, Freud.”

“You can blame my therapist, not Freud, for that one.” She shrugs, eyeing up her burger. “That’s how it is with me and soccer. I can play in front of a stadium packed with people, and I’m fine. But take me out of soccer, and I can’t do it. I feel worthy of that kind of attention and respect when I’m Ziggy the soccer player. Anywhere else, any way else…” She sighs, forlorn as she stares at her burger. “Not so much.”

I stare at her, biting my lip. “Look at you, chattering away, Sigrid. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Yeah, well,” she mutters. “Try being the last of seven kids and see if you ever cultivate the habit of trying to get a word in edgewise.”

“Talk as much as you want around me. You know, if that’s what you’d do around a…friend. I can stare moodily into my sandwich and pretend to listen while you do.”

I feel her gaze on the side of my head, a thick silence before I’m shoved halfheartedly.

A little throaty laugh leaves her. “Seb Gauthier.” She shakes her head, then licks off another drop of ketchup that’s landed on her hand. “Only you could be both sweet and a total jerk in the same breath.”

“I’m not sweet,” I warn her. “I told you, it’s just for show.”

She nods, eyeing up her burger. “Mm-kay.”

I stare at her, my tongue pressed into my cheek. “You called me Seb.”

She’s about to bite into her burger when she glances my way. “You don’t like being called by your full name, so I figured I’d stop torturing you with it.”

Shrugging, I bring the milkshake to my mouth and draw a gulp through the straw. “Sort of feels weird now, you calling me something besides Sebastian.”

I fiddle with the straw, avoiding her eyes.

Ziggy’s quiet again, but her hand wraps gently around the milkshake and tugs it toward her. I can’t seem to let go, so I let her fingers tangle with mine, let her strength tug me close.

I shut my eyes as I list toward her, smelling her soft, clean scent, feeling her hair lift on the wind and whisper against my skin. When I open my eyes, she’s right there, sucking from the straw, eyes on me.

She sits back and licks her lips, peering at me thoughtfully. “‘Sebastian’ it is.”

“I still reserve the right to tell you to fuck off when you annoy me with how you say it.”

A snort-laugh leaves her. “I’d expect nothing less.” Then she takes another bite of her burger, chewing as she stares thoughtfully out at the parking lot, elbows braced on her knees.

She looks fucking perfect.

I lift my phone and take a photo. The moment she hears the synthesized sound of a shutter, her head whips my way. “Wawasdat?” she yells around her bite.

I bite back a laugh. “Settle yourself, Sigrid. I’m documenting your badassery, that’s all.”

She glares at me, then with surprisingly fast reflexes, yanks the phone out of my hand, rotating it so she can see the photo.

Her chewing stops. She swallows thickly, a painfully large bite, judging by how hard her throat works.

“What is it?” I ask.