ANNIE

I’m in my room when the noise begins.

It’s a howl, sort of, or a screech. Like a cow in labor or a pigeon on its deathbed. I plug my headphones tighter to my ears, crank up the movie soundtracks, and return to studying.

I’m at my grandmother’s house tonight—on a Saturday night—studying because of this stupid exam. Sarah wanted to have friends over to our apartment, and I didn’t want to spoil her weekend just because I’m feeling anti-social and grouchy. So, I vacated the premises while her friends piled into our apartment.

This anti-social and grouchy mood has nothing to do with the fact that I spent all day thinking about why in the world I didn’t stick around after class and ask Cohen James out for a cup of coffee. I could’ve had plans tonight if I’d wanted to, but I hadn’t gotten up the guts. Hence the reason I’m studying at my grandmother’s house on Saturday evening.

My mother also took advantage of the situation by requesting I join her for a day of shopping tomorrow. She wants to find me the perfect dress to wear as her maid of honor.

I’m not thrilled about the dress, but she sweetened the pot and offered to buy brunch and lattes from the fancy place on Grand. What can I say? Unlike Cohen James, I’m easy to bribe.

I’m trying to read through my notes again, pushing away all thoughts of Cohen James, but that noise outside just won’t quit. I’m not sure what’s worse—the dying pigeon, or the incessant thoughts about Cohen’s naked torso. They’re both equally annoying and equally persistent.

Finally, I throw off my headphones and make my way over toward the window. It’s my childhood bedroom, and most of the decorations—the boy band posters, the collage of high school photos, the earring display and nail polish jars—remain largely intact.

Cranking the window open, my heart begins to race as I realize that the sound is neither a pigeon dying nor a cow giving birth—it’s distinctly human. I can’t make out the exact words, but it’s definitely a voice.

My palms get slick with sweat as my brain starts to ponder the worst case scenarios. Is someone getting mugged? Do I call the police? Run outside with my dinky pink can of pepper spray? I could yell downstairs to Gran, but I don’t expect she’d be able to do much to help.

Leaning out the window, I begin to breathe easier. I catch sight of a man’s figure standing on the street below, and it looks like he’s talking on one of those Bluetooth earpieces. It’s still odd that he’s standing outside in this weather, but at least nobody is in mortal danger.

I’m about to turn back to studying and crank up the volume when my back shoots ramrod straight, and a flash of recognition streaks through my mind. The robe. I recognize the robe.

“Oh, no,” I breathe, flinging the window open even wider. I lean close to the screen and, sure enough, as the blast of icy cold air steals my breath, another jolt of recognition hits me hard.

Cohen James. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing standing outside in a robe, but suddenly, I’m wondering if he’s trying to sing. He might have the body of a Greek god, but he’s got the voice of a rooster with laryngitis.

Tapping my toe against the floor, I wearily scan the neighborhood and impatiently wait for him to wrap up the verse. He does so with an extra flourish of his hands, and a bow halfway to the ground.

“Cohen James!” I shout through the arctic blast. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m serenading you.”

“I thought someone was getting mugged!”

“You don’t like it?”

“There’s nothing to like; it’s not music.”

He fingers the edges of the robe, pulling it tighter around his body. “I thought you might appreciate seeing your gift in use.”

“It’s freezing. Go home, Cohen.”

“All of this for nothing?”

“What did you expect?” I ask, lowering my voice as our neighbor’s light clicks on. We live in a fairly normal, pint-sized community just outside of the Twin Cities that likes to gab. I don’t want to bring attention to myself or my family. “You can’t just show up here in the middle of the night.”

“It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday.”

I hesitate, glance at the clock on the wall. It’s technically eight thirty, but I’ve been studying since the sun went down and it feels like three in the morning to me.

“I’ll leave if you reconsider my offer of a date,” he says into the silence. “It’s just dinner, Annie.”

I pause, which is unexpected, even to myself. By the time I snap back to attention, someone else has joined the conversation, and it’s too late to keep this private.

“Well, lookie here!” Gran opens the front door downstairs. I can picture her easily, standing there in her own fluffy robe and bubblegum pink bunny slippers. “That’s a nice robe you’ve got there. Wait a second... don’t I know you?”

Cohen rubs a hand over his forehead looking shockingly unembarrassed. “You do. We met earlier at the YMCA. I was trying to win over your granddaughter, but I think I’ve struck out.”

“That’s a bummer. She’s a tough cookie to please.”

“So I’m beginning to see.”

“Anyway, don’t freeze your buns off! Come on inside. I’ll fix you a warm drink.”

“Gran, no!” I call down. “Cohen was just heading home.”

“Where are your manners?” Gran yells up the stairs. “He seems like a perfectly nice man, and he’s practically freezing his buns off out there. Come on in here, Cohen. It’s nice to see you again.”

Before I can resist further, Gran has shepherded Cohen into the house and, judging by the clatters coming from below, she’s begun a quest to warm him up.

Sighing, I look in the mirror. It’s not pretty. I’ve got my hair whipped into a studying ponytail, and I have absolutely no makeup on my face. I’ve borrowed clothes from my high school self, and let’s face it—Annie Plymouth wasn’t any sort of fashionista, even in her prime. It’s snowmen flannel pants and a tank top for me.

Long story short, I’m in no state to be going downstairs to greet company.

If I stay here, however, Gran will have a tongue lashing for me. She might be kooky, but she insists on good manners. Why? I have no idea.

Since there are no great options, I decide to suck it up and face the music—or rather, the horrible screeching. Cohen’s already seen me in a fugly swimsuit and no makeup, so there’s no need to get fancy. I shrug into a big sweatshirt that won’t show a single curve and make my way downstairs.

I’m still not convinced that I should get tangled up with Cohen James in any way, shape, or form. There might be enough chemistry between us to light this place on fire, but sooner or later, the flames will be doused and I’ll be the one left hurting. Best if I stay sensible—it’s worked for me so far, and there’s no reason I should stop now.

Gran’s got two cups of hot chocolate sitting on the kitchen table by the time I arrive. Being in my gran’s kitchen has a calming effect on me; I’ve always liked the way it’s set up.

There’s a small, cozy table centered in the breakfast nook. Old, yet well-kept, wallpaper lines the walls, yellow and bright, and it brings me right back to the mornings I spent here as a kid.

“Enjoy,” Gran says, pushing a bag of marshmallows toward me. “I’ve gotta get some cucumbers on my eyes and a head start on my beauty sleep, so I’ll just be upstairs trying my darndest to turn back time. And wrinkles.”

“But—” I start to argue, but find myself speaking to Gran’s retreating figure before I can form a sentence. I turn my glare on Cohen, who is watching me with a grin on his face. “What are you looking at?”

He lifts the hot chocolate to his lips, takes a sip, and closes his eyes. “This is delicious.”

“Gran has a special recipe,” I say, swirling the spoon in mine. “She’s never told me what it is exactly, but I swear it’s magic.”

“I’d agree.”

“I used to come inside after sledding with my friends when I was little, and we’d leave our boots in the entryway,” I begin, unable to stop the story from tumbling out once I’ve started. “My mom would get so upset by the puddles we’d leave there, but Gran never cared. She even threw a snowball in the house once.”

“How am I not surprised?”

I laugh. “I know, right? Anyway, she always had these hot chocolates waiting for us, so every time I have one, I remember...” I trail off, realizing I’m babbling. “Sorry, boring.”

“You grew up in this house?” Instead of looking bored, Cohen glances around the room, his eyes landing on a few of the old trinkets that line the walls. A picture of my Gran and Gramps on their wedding day sits in the place of honor behind the table. A few photos of me, sometimes surrounded by friends, sometimes with Gran, sometimes alone, are scattered around, too.

“Yeah,” I say, following his line of sight to the photos. “I’ve always loved this room.”

“I can see why.” He points to a few photos with me in them. “Your parents aren’t in any of these photos?”

“My mom was usually the one taking the picture.”

“And your dad?”

“They’re divorced.”

Cohen nods, and thankfully, he doesn’t press any further. I’m not in the mood to discuss any of that with him. In turn, he doesn’t offer any pity, no sympathy, just an understanding expression, and it’s nice. Almost as if he understands.

“He worked a lot when I was young,” I say, taking another sip of hot chocolate. Something about the silence made me feel the need to speak. “I think that’s probably one of the reasons why my parents didn’t work out. My mom and I moved in with Gran and Gramps after they split up.”

“This wedding in July—is it your mom who’s getting remarried?”

“Yeah, to a guy named Claude. He seems to make her happy.”

Cohen gives a tight smile. “That’s what counts.”

As it turns out, Cohen’s a good listener. I realize I’ve been talking this whole time, and I’ve hardly asked a word about himself. “You just moved here from California, didn’t you?”

“Well, moved back. I’m from here, originally. Took a few years to play for the Lightning, but something called me home.”

“Did you miss this place when you left?”

“Let’s just say that I didn’t have a lot holding me here.”

“And now that you’re back?”

Cohen ignores the question, peers into his cup. An adorable little frown appears at the sight of one lone marshmallow there. “I could drink this for days.”

“Are you sad to be home?”

I should stop prying, but I can’t help myself. I’ll never admit it to him, but not five minutes before he’d serenaded me outside the window, I’d had an article pulled up with his face on it. Research.

“I’m indifferent. Except for the damn weather. My blood’s thin, and I feel the cold.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I do love skating on the lakes though. First time I’ve done that in a few years.”

My worst nightmare. I cringe outwardly at the thought of ice skating, but I recover quickly and pepper him with more questions so I don’t have to think about it. “You never came back to visit?”

“I did, but like I said, I hadn’t left much when I went away.”

“Your parents are—”

“Just me and my dad,” he says.

“Oh, that’s fun!” I’m trying to be peppy, but he doesn’t seem to be interested. “Just two guys hanging out?”

“Sure,” he says shortly, without an explanation. “A real joy. So, have you been reading more about me? How’d you know I just moved back?”

My face burns. He already knows I don’t follow hockey. If I did, I’d have recognized him on the first day of class. So I ignore the question and fire back with my own. “Why are you always doing stupid stuff?”

“Stupid stuff?”

“It’s like you’re looking for trouble.” I shrug my shoulders, well aware that I’m playing with fire. “In the last year alone, you’ve been involved in a bar fight, serenaded your teammate naked, mouthed off to the press, and fired your agent.”

“The agent was a crook, the reporter an asshole, the bar fight a necessity, and the serenading...” He pauses and graces me with a light-hearted smile. “That was just for fun.”

“How can a bar fight ever be a necessity?”

“If you’d seen someone steal your best friend’s fiancée’s purse right out from under her nose, what would you do?”

I look down at my own arms. “Call the police?”

He grins. “Yeah, well, I forgot the number. And they wouldn’t have been faster than my fist.”

“Ah, I see.” I sit back in the chair, crossing my arms and layering on the sarcasm. “So it’s all a giant misunderstanding? You’re not a troublemaker at all—really, you’re just one giant teddy bear out to save the world?”

“Well...” He gestures toward his attire. “I do have a Superman robe.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s dodging the question. I should just let it go. I’ve already decided that getting involved with him is just not an option. Not at this point in my life.

But there’s something bothering me about him, as if there’s more to him than meets the eye. I get the feeling he’s a tough nut to crack. Not that I’m thinking about nuts.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Cohen’s face flashes with a whisper of frustration. “I don’t have a good answer for you, Annie.”

“It’s not that hard of a question,” I say. “I’m just trying to understand.”

He shrugs. “Do you want some sob story? Does it make it easier for you to understand me if I tell you that my dad has always preferred to drink beer instead of watching my hockey games? He’s never seen me play in person. Does it make it better to know my mom walked away from us when I was a baby?”

“Cohen, I didn’t mean—”

“Sometimes a person doesn’t fit into a neat little box, Annie.” He stands up, carrying his hot chocolate cup to the sink. “I’m sorry it’s not black and white for you.”

“I’m not trying to upset you. You’re the one who showed up here in the middle of the night. You’re the one who’s trying so hard to get us together. I’m just trying to understand why.”

“I’m beginning to wonder the same thing.” Turning to face me, he gives a shake of his head. “Maybe it is a mistake. I’ve never in my life worked so hard to try and get a girl to dinner. Especially one I’m supposed to be professional with.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“It just feels worth it to me.”

“Worth it?”

“You’re different. There is so much more to you than any woman I’ve ever met. Of course you’re beautiful. But I also really enjoy talking to you. Being around you. Hearing what you think about things. What am I supposed to do, sit back and let someone else ask you out first?”

“Oh.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I should be heading home so you can get back to... whatever you were doing.”

The robe is open now, and I realize he’s got jeans and a sweater on underneath. More practical than I expected.

I grudgingly gesture toward his body. “The robe is a nice touch.”

Cohen’s already turned to leave, but he stops in the doorway. “Humor me, Annie. Why do you dislike me so much?”

“I don’t dislike you, I’m just... I’m not at a place where I want to date.” My hands circle the hot chocolate mug for strength. “I have a lot on my plate—I’m graduating, my mom’s getting remarried, I’m going to law school in the fall. I don’t need any distractions.”

“And that’s all you imagine I would be?”

“It’s not you, Cohen. I’d turn down anyone right now.”

“Really?” Skepticism is written on his face. “Anyone?”

My hesitation is a second too long.

“I see.” He nods. “Girls like you don’t mix with guys like me. I understand.”

“No, Cohen, I just have to focus on studying and working and... I don’t have time to goof off.”

“Have a nice night, Annie. See you next week.”

“That came out wrong!” I call after him. “I didn’t mean you’re... a joke or something.”

“It’s fine.” He pauses at the door and gives a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m the one who showed up here unannounced. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad in the slightest.”

“Upset?”

“Goodnight, Annie.”

He’s gone, out the door and into a sleek car parked at the curb. When he gets into it and pulls away, there’s a strange tightness in my chest, and a sinking feeling in my gut. I might not want to date the man, but I didn’t want to hurt him, either.

“Well, that went well, huh?” Gran asks, coming up from behind me. She reaches for my shoulder and gives a squeeze. She’s stronger than she looks. “Come upstairs, honey. I’d like to tell you a story.”