Down and Dirty (Hot Jocks #5)(27)

Which means . . . maybe I shouldn’t be holding back or letting my fears determine what could turn out to be a spectacular future?

“So, what else is new?” she asks after a long, comfortable silence.

Shrugging, I take a sip of the drink in front of me. “Nothing much.”

I don’t dare tell her about the promotion that I’ve been offered. I try not to even think about it, or I’ll be buried in guilt. Is it even worth trying with Landon when I’ll be moving soon? It’s a question I don’t have the answer to.

It’s much easier to listen to Becca talk about wedding planning, peppered with snarky comments about her future mother-in-law. I giggle at all the right times.

One hour and a full veggie pizza later, we have a completed seating chart, and I’m a level of tired I haven’t been since the Ice Hawks charity gala last month. It’s been a long day, and I have to be up extra early for a meeting about the Vancouver project first thing tomorrow morning.

With a quick hug good-bye, I leave Becca’s and head home, forgoing the meal prep I had planned in favor of plopping down on the couch. I haven’t even picked out what mindless TV show I want to watch when my phone buzzes with a text from Landon.

What are you doing?

It’s nice to know he’s thinking about me, but today was so busy, I’m not sure if I’m up for pulling myself together to see him.

I decide to keep it vague. Just laying low.

His response comes almost instantly. Not in the mood for company tonight then?

It’s not that. I just had a long day, I reply.

He sends back a string of question marks, looking for more details.

I touch the small bandage on my shoulder beneath my shirt. Maybe I should just tell him. It’s not that big of a deal, but knowing Landon, it’s the kind of thing he would get upset about if I kept it from him. And he was so open with me about his dad, it would feel weird hiding it. So I take a deep breath and type out my reply.

Well, after work I helped Becca with the wedding seating chart, and I had a suspicious mole on my shoulder shaved off this morning, so I think I’m too tired to hang out.

Three seconds later, my phone is ringing. It’s him. That didn’t take long.

“Hi.” I chuckle nervously, chewing on my thumbnail.

“What do you mean, shaved off? Are you okay?” His voice is stern.

“Um . . . a biopsy, I guess. To check for melanoma.” There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “Um, hello? Landon? Are you there?”

“That’s skin cancer,” he finally says, his voice strained.

“It’s probably nothing,” I mumble self-consciously, touching the bandage on my shoulder. “I swear, it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you okay?”

I realize he already asked me that, but I guess I forgot to answer. “I’m fine. I didn’t feel a thing. It’s a tiny bit sore now that I’m not numbed up anymore, but as long as I don’t move my arm around a lot, it’s nothing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is firm, but laced with concern too.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

He sucks in a quick breath, a telltale sign that he’s frustrated with me. “I could have driven you to the appointment and stayed with you during the procedure. You said that I should communicate better with you, but you—”

“It was a routine appointment,” I say, cutting him off. “I go every year, and this is the first time there’s ever been an issue. I have a lot of freckles, in case you didn’t notice. It’s good to get them checked on.”

“Your freckles are cute,” he mumbles distractedly.

“Regardless, I’m okay, and now you know.”

He draws in another breath, but this time, he sounds relieved. “I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry for panicking.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me tonight.” I wiggle my toes under the blanket, watching the fuzzy pink material shift. “I’ll be firmly planted on my couch with a lot of snacks and bad TV.”

I can practically hear his smirk through the phone. “Not Annie, I hope.”

That makes me smile. “Not Annie. I save that for special occasions.”

“What’s more special than having a mole shaved off? I’ll be right over.”

“You don’t have—” I say, but Landon’s already ended the call. Damn it!

I don’t want him making such a big deal of this. I’m older than him, thirty now, which means I have weird moles, and boobs that are two inches lower than I’d prefer, and my stomach is soft and squishy, and my thighs are . . . well, let’s not get started on my thighs. The point is, there are weird things happening with my body all the time. If he makes a big commotion about every one of them, he’ll be having a full-blown freak-out once a week.

I manage to pull myself off the couch and trudge to my bedroom, where I dab a little concealer under my eyes and spray my roots with dry shampoo. I don’t need to look like a supermodel—I couldn’t even if I tried—but if I don’t want Landon being overdramatic about my situation, I should probably look like I have it a little bit together. Downstairs, I rearrange the pillows on my couch, eyeing the dishes I’ve yet to put away. It’s too late to worry about them now. My doorbell is already chiming.