“Just check on her on your way up. Just a minute. She wouldn’t stop crying.”
“She doesn’t even like me! She hates me!”
“She loves you!”
“You didn’t even try to make it sound convincing!” I slump in my chair. “She’s not gonna wanna see me. Probably throw a pillow at my head or something.”
“Nah.” Carter grins. “It’s the heels you gotta watch out for.”
What am I doing?
Stupid condo. Stupid Carter.
No, I’m not doing it. I’m not going. I refuse. Carter can’t make me. And Jennie won’t know if I don’t go. It’s not like Carter’s gonna tell her he sent me to check up on her.
It’s decided. I won’t go. I press for the penthouse and sink back against the elevator wall with a relieved sigh.
I watch the light above the doors bounce from one floor to the next, and as it climbs toward that 21, I groan.
I slam the emergency stop button the moment I pass Jennie’s floor, catching myself on the railing when the elevator bounces to a stop. It whirs to life when I hit it a second time, and I jab 21 just once, nice and hard, and drag my hands over my face.
A minute later, I’ve got my hockey bag over my shoulder, sticks in my hand, and ear pressed to Jennie’s door. The silence I’m met with convinces me everything’s okay. Maybe she found Princess Jellybean.
A whimper stops me in my tracks when I turn to leave. The broken sob that follows tugs on my weak heartstrings. With a sigh, I tuck my sticks under my arm and knock.
“Go away!” Jennie shouts from inside.
“Uh, I…um…” Words fail, so I knock again, quieter this time, ’cause I’m afraid to piss her off.
“I said go a—” The door whips open. Jennie’s jaw dangles as she stares at me. Her light violet-blue eyes seem paler than usual, the rim around them dark like midnight, the contrast striking. Like the skin around her eyes, her nose is pink, lips swollen and highly kissable.
No. Nope. No, they’re fucking not, Garrett.
“Uh, hi.” Am I waving? Fuck. Off to an awkward start; great.
Jennie hiccups, dragging the back of her wrist across her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, Carter said—”
“Oh my God! My brother sent you to check up on me? Unbelievable.” She slams her hip against the door, propping it open, but it’s the arms pinned over her chest that are an issue. She’s wearing forest green leggings and a matching sports bra—a stark contrast from her oversized hoodie and jammies this morning. My gaze bounces between her cleavage and her toned stomach. Why isn’t she wearing a shirt? She should put a shirt on.
“You should…a shirt. Please?” Why is this happening to me?
Dark brows rocket up her forehead. “Oh, you’d like me to put on a shirt? Would that please you? Well, I’d like you to get fucking lost!” She’s screaming but still crying, swiping at the tears free-falling down her cheeks, so it’s kinda more funny than scary.
Until she pins me with a glower so fierce, that smile creeping up my face drops.
“Right. Your home. No shirt.” Am I giving her finger guns? I’m fucking giving her finger guns. I grip my stick with both hands to prevent any further embarrassing actions. “Carter didn’t send me to check up on you,” I lie. “We grabbed lunch after practice and he said you lost Princess Jellybean, and I thought—”
“Princess Jellybean? It’s Princess Bubblegum! Ugh!” Arms in the air, she spins away.
Fuck me, those leggings. That fucking ass. It’s not until it starts disappearing from view that I realize she’s slamming the door in my face.
Flinging myself forward, I barrel through the door with my hockey bag, tumbling inside. Jennie grunts as I accidentally sandwich her between me and the wall. My arm goes around her, pulling her tight against me to keep her from going down.
“Get off me.” She huffs, shoving against my chest. “Wrong apartment, fuckboy. Your hockey hooker lives across the hall.”
My face flames. “She’s not my—I’m not a…”
Jennie sniffles, chest heaving as she stares up at me. She shoves me once more, gently, but my feet stay rooted. That dancer’s body she’s worked so hard on is sculpted perfection, but I’ve got close to a hundred pounds of immovable body mass on her.
My hand slips to her bare waist, gripping it to keep her steady while I straighten. “I’m not looking for Emily, and she’s not my…” I clear my throat. “Hockey hooker.”
Jennie dusts off her boobs. Nice boobs. No dust, though. “That’s not what she said.” She cleans the remaining tears off her face. “What are you doing here, Andersen?”
“Carter said you were upset about Princess Jell—Bubblegum. I was passing by and wanted to see if you were okay.” I take in the mess in the living room, boxes ripped open, contents strewn across the floor. “How’s the search goin’?”
Jennie fiddles with her braid, scuffing at the floor with her toes. “I can’t find her. I’ve only got a few boxes left here, and a couple in the spare bedroom.”
“Hmm.” I shove my fingers below my hat and scratch my head, pretending not to notice the way Jennie’s eyes track the movement. I’ve always been fascinated by her. She’s beautiful, and she knows it. Thick chestnut waves, almost always tied back in a braid, finished with a ribbon. Kinda tall, I think. Five-eight, maybe, still a whole lot shorter than me. Long-ass legs I wouldn’t mind wrapping around my neck, draping down my back. A brilliant, wide grin with heart-stopping dimples, and a fierce personality, so bold and confident.
But when her eyes meet mine, it’s the dashed hope in them that prompts my next words.
“I’ll help you look.”
“What?” Her nose wrinkles as I drop my equipment, the damp, sweaty stench wafting up to us. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Sure, but I don’t mind.” I move past her, choosing a stack of boxes before she can argue more. Picking up the steak knife resting on top, I twirl it between my fingers and glance at Jennie as she watches me cautiously, fingers curling at her stomach. “Poor Princess Bubblegum might need stitches when you’re done with her if this is what you’re using to open boxes.”
I swear I see it, right there in the corner, the teensiest hint of a smile. Before it can bloom, Jennie’s lips flatten, and she slowly steps toward me.
“I broke the scissors because I was jabbing the boxes too hard.” She twirls her braid around her finger. “Uh, thanks. For helping, or whatever.”
“You’re welcome.”
I quickly slice the tape on all the boxes so I can tuck the knife away, and we sort through each one in silence, only the quiet music Jennie has playing on her speaker drifting through the room.
“What kind of stuffie is Princess Bubblegum, anyway?” I ask, flipping through a box of photo frames. It’s the last box in my stack, and the air has grown heavier with each one.
Jennie doesn’t respond. I find her staring at her box, knuckles nearly white as she grips it, coaxing me slowly in her direction.
“Hey. You okay?”
“She’s a pink bunny,” she whispers. “My dad got her for me for my sixth birthday. She’s got a ribbon on each ear and a-a—” she holds her arms out, thumbs and forefingers pinched together like she’s gripping the hem of a skirt, “—a pink tutu!” She chokes on her words, burying her sob and face in her hands, and I race across the room, arms outstretched.
I skid to a stop in front of her, resisting the urge to touch her. “You’re crying again.” Stupid. Of course she’s crying. She doesn’t need me to point out the obvious.
“I’m not crying,” she cries, jabbing a finger into my chest. “You’re crying!”
Riiight…