Tomboy (The Hartigans #3)(43)

Her hands were only clammy because she didn’t feel like getting called out by Larry or busted by her besties. It wasn’t because she was texting Zach after she’d made such a boring fuck-up of things before his plane had taken off.

In the staff break room.

The level of stunning dialogue there was amazing. In her defense, she’d been nervous and not sure how to talk after the night they’d had together, which hadn’t meant anything. Really. Not a thing.

Her phone vibrated.

Zach: Literally kick ass?

Checking her periphery to make sure that Gina and Tess were focused on following Larry’s directions on making the perfect sweeping stroke, she moved her phone so it was slightly under the table and responded.

Fallon: Only if the occasion calls for it. Watch out for Exter. He’s a dirty player.

Zach: I have seen a couple of hockey games in my life.

She rolled her eyes. She could smell the testosterone from here.

Fallon: You making jokes?

Zach: Maybe.

Fallon: I’ll laugh after your win, when you’re back to the hotel without a concussion and all the teeth you still have.

Zach: Hey. I’m only missing one.

Fallon: Keep it that way.

Stop typing, thumbs! Why had she said that? What did she care if he was putting some dentist’s fourteen kids through college? He was just a guy, no matter if he did some wicked work with his tongue.

Zach: You watching tonight?

There was no need to ask what. When it was Ice Knights game night, there was only one option.

Fallon: As soon as I get done painting this wilted lettuce.

It seemed Larry had read an investigative post about the amount of food tossed out uneaten compared to the number of people going hungry in the United States, and instead of donating to the food pantry or volunteering at a shelter, he decided to make all of them paint wilted lettuce on a kitchen counter.

Zach: Wilted lettuce? Is that the world’s worst euphemism?

She snort-laughed before she could stop herself.

Fallon: It’s Paint and Sip night with the girls & a long story.

Zach: You’ll have to tell me after I get back.

Which, according to the news—not that she was stalking or cared, just because the local sports talk radio station was playing on her drive to Paint and Sip—would be in the wee hours of the morning on Sunday.

Fallon: I’ll tell you at the next fundraiser. Remember you promised to bring a few of your teammates to this one when you get back. Sunday at noon. Do. Not. Miss. It.

Zach: I won’t. Have to go catch the team bus.

Fallon: Go forth and kick ass!

Before she could stare at the screen and reread the whole stream, she shoved her phone into the backpack between her feet, wondering why Larry had turned the air conditioning off.

Tess leaned over. “Are you blushing?”

“No.” Okay, her face was hot, and she was super pasty Irish and—shit, she was totally blushing.

“You liar. You are blushing,” Gina said, holding up her plastic wineglass as if she was offering a toast at one of the weddings she planned. “Who were you texting? Was it Zach?”

Fallon nodded because saying his name out loud felt different since she’d hollered it while his face was between her thighs. “Just part of our agreement. Plus, I needed to make sure he didn’t forget about the fundraiser when he gets back into town.”

“I think you like him.” Tess’s eyes were big and round with excitement.

“Nope,” she said, the single word coming out loud enough that half the class turned and looked at them.

Gina waited for the gawkers to return to their still lives before saying, “I think you want to bang him.”

Tess’s eyes narrowed, and then she gasped. “I think she already did.”

“Spill!” they both whisper-screamed at the same time, earning a dirty look from Larry.

Oh God. This was not how she wanted this to go, not that she wanted to have this conversation at all, but once the besties were on the trail, there was no knocking them off. The fastest way to end the inquisition was to give them all the answers—within reason. And quietly. Very quietly. Having this conversation end up on The Biscuit or somewhere else that had been all in her business lately was on the never-ever level of hellscapes she wanted to visit.

“So,” she said, drawing the single-syllable word into four. “It happened.”

“And?” Gina asked.

“It was good.” Great. Amazing. She was still sore. “But it was just the one night.”

Tess seemed to deflate on her chair. “Why?”

For a million really good reasons that she couldn’t think up at the moment. “Because I’m me and he’s him. Plus he has some weird superstition that I’m bringing him luck on the ice.”

Gina snorted. “Oh, you mean the same weird superstition that every hockey fan in Harbor City has?”

“Did you know more than half of Americans say they’re at least a little superstitious?” Tess asked, her face getting that thoughtful, far-off look she got when discussing random factoids. “Really, though, I think it’s just a way of feeling like we’re in control.”

Really? Because all it had done was open her up for a million comments from strangers on social media about her hair, what she wore, and a ton of other things. Basically, for being female in public.