Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
I shake my head. I’ve never seen a woman who can make jokes at the drop of a hat like that. When we finally make it up the stairs, I stop at the entrance. “Is this someone’s house?” I lean in to ask Zoe, the smell of her perfume filling my nose. Three windows let light into the room. Four bookcases fill in the walls to the windows. But it’s the huge square table with fourteen chairs around it in the middle of the room that makes me stop. On the back wall are stairs leading to another floor.
“This is the private area,” Zara says. “We came once and sat downstairs. This is a big hockey town and the fans are amazing, but it was a little bit over the top when Evan had to stop every two bites to talk and take pictures.”
“This way, we get to enjoy the food, and it’s quiet,” Evan says, walking over to the table and pulling out a chair for his wife to sit down. He looks at Zoe, who glares at him and walks to a chair and sits down, putting her purse on the empty chair on her right leaving the left chair open. “The table is huge, but we can all sit on one side.”
“Aha,” the woman from behind the bar says, walking into the room, her chest heaving at having climbed the steps. “The Richards and Signora Zoe,” she says. “You finally got a boyfriend,” she says, looking at me. I don’t know what to say, and I actually don’t have to say anything because all three of them shake their heads.
“No,” Zoe says, shaking her head. “He’s a hockey player.”
“What does that mean?” I look at her, and I’m surprised that I even care she said that. I shouldn’t care. She can call me whatever she wants to call me; it makes no difference.
“It’s mean that you play hockey.” She turns to look at me. “It also means I will never date you.”
“Because I play hockey?” I ask, confused, and now all eyes are on us as we go back and forth.
“Well, that’s strike one.” At least she’s honest about it. “Strike two, I work for you, and strike three—”
I hold up my hand. “I don’t care,” I say and then look back at the lady. “Can I have a water please?”
She tries to hide her wide eyes and smiles. “Sure thing. I get some water, and then I’ll bring some food, yeah?”
“Perfect,” Zara says, trying to cut through the tension we just created in the room.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Zoe says. “I was just trying to say”—she uses her hands to motion between Evan and me—“that you and Evan are co-workers.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” I repeat. I don’t even look at her. I can’t get involved with her, and this, right here, is another reason. She doesn’t want me anyway. I turn to look at Zara who sits beside Evan on the side of me. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything,” Zara says, and then I feel the chair next to me scoot back from the table.
“Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom,” Zoe says, and she gets up and walks back down the stairs.
“I don’t think she meant anything by that,” Zara says. I look at her, and then I look at Evan. I know that if I upset his wife, he’s probably going to deck me. “It was just taken out of context.” I just nod at her, and thankfully, the woman comes back with some water and then hands us the menu.
“I am starving,” Zoe says when she returns and pulls in her chair. “Do you think they’re bringing us some calamari?”
“Oh, God, I hope so,” Zara says, and just like that, the big elephant in the room and the tension from the talk before goes to the corner. Though it lingers. I want to ask her what exactly she meant. They teach you to talk your feelings out in therapy and not hold it in to where it festers inside you.
“I think I’m going to go with pasta tonight,” Zoe says. “What about everyone else?”
“I’m going meat,” Evan says.
“I might do meat and pasta,” Zara says, and I look up at her. “I’m eating for two.”
I look at Evan, who sits there beaming with pride as he puts his hand on her stomach. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you so much. We really aren’t telling anyone yet,” Zara says to me with a smile, “but it’s hard to keep the secret.”
“What do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a professional shopper,” she says. “Zara’s Closet, that’s me.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” I tell her. “One of the hockey wives was raving about it because you just dressed Carter Johnson and his wife. What’s her name?”
“Erin,” Zara says, nodding. “That was me.”