Chapter Twenty

“I would like for you to go to a little party with me.”

“What?” Amy looked up from where she was packing Emile’s bag. It was Wednesday, and the team was flying out on Thursday afternoon for three away games beginning in Anaheim on Friday and ending in San Jose on Sunday, with Los Angles in between on Saturday.

“A party. Tonight. It is Sharon Orlov’s birthday on Saturday, and Mikhail is making a little party for her. Nothing very big. Just a few people at a restaurant. Maybe ten. It will not go late, since we fly out tomorrow.”

“Thank you for asking, but no.” She counted out eight pairs of boxer shorts and began to roll them into compact little cylinders. It would be like stepping into that WAG suite all over again when she wasn’t a wife or girlfriend.

He sighed and sat down on the bed. “I would like it if you would. I know you are shy about being around Noel, even though she would be nice to you. But I inquired. She and Glaz are not coming. Noel is at a quilt festival, and Glaz will be home with baby Anna Lillian.”

He smiled. Bit his lip. Let his eyes sparkle. He wanted her to go—and a part of her wanted to.

He must have sensed her wavering. “You would have a nice time. And this is a nice place. You have cooked so many good meals for me and made game days so much better. You should have someone cook for you. I know you worry for the cost of things, but this is a party. We are all invited as guests of Mikhail.”

“Where is it?”

“A place Mikhail says everyone is speaking of. The Butter Factory. Though that makes no sense to me. I thought a cow was a butter factory.”

Well. That clinched it. She had no decision to make now. There was no way she could go there. “I can’t, Emile.” Cameron had taken her there once, back when he’d still been trying, which she understood now was back before he’d started wooing his new wife. “I don’t have anything to wear. It’s a jacket required, or at least jacket suggested, kind of place.” Nashville was casual, a boots and jeans kind of city. They wouldn’t turn someone away, but it just wasn’t the kind of place where one wore jeans and a sweater—especially for a birthday party.

Emile looked confused. “I have jackets.”

“I know you do. But I don’t.”

He laughed. “Funny, Amy. Jackets required only means men. Not ladies.”

Was he really that obtuse? “I know, Emile. But I don’t have the equivalent. I have the leggings and tunic I had when you took me in and the clothes that I have bought since—one pair of jeans, one pair of corduroy pants, two knit turtlenecks, a sweater, and a white button-down shirt.” She realized as she enumerated her wardrobe that she sounded as though she was poor-mouthing. “And I am very grateful to you that I have this job that allowed me to buy those things. I am only explaining that none of that is appropriate for the Butter Factory.”

His face clouded. “Grateful to me? That you have these few things? I can buy you a dress . . . any dress you want. Or some kind of other outfit. I don’t know what. Some kind of fancy pants? With a jacket? Maybe with sparkles? That would be good for this restaurant that should be called Cow?”

In that moment, it was almost impossible to not throw herself into his arms and stroke his adorable face. On second thought, why not do that? If she could lick him head to toe, she could do that.

Thinking he’d won, he smiled and brought her to sit on his lap. “So, is a good idea? To get an outfit for the party? It’s not noon yet. Plenty of time to shop.”

She rose from his lap and pulled her hand from his. “No, Emile. I cannot let you buy me clothes.”

“I don’t understand you. You only need these sparkle pants because of this party I want you to attend. You let me buy all manner of containers, labels, and such to put my drawers and closets in order.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Then wear something of Gabriella’s. She does not mind. She likes you. She loves you. She said so.”

“I know. And I appreciate that she was so generous before I got some clothes of my own. But her things don’t really fit me.” There was no point in even trying to explain to him why she could not get away with what a tall, ethereal beauty who should be strutting down a Paris runway could. “I am sorry. Really. But you don’t have to go alone. You must not feel that just because we . . . enjoy . . . each other that you can’t ask someone else to go.” As she said it, she realized how much she didn’t want that to happen. And that was a scary thought. It was a good thing he was leaving for four days. She’d have time to get her bearings back.

He set that beautiful mouth in a hard line and crossed his arms over his chest. “If Cameron Snow had not taken all your things, would you have this dress? These sparkly pants?”

“Well, I don’t believe I had any sparkly pants, but yes. I did have outfits appropriate for a party at the Butter Factory.”

“Je méprise ce putain bâtard!”

“Apart from proclaiming him a bastard, I don’t know what you said, but I agree.” And she did. She wanted to go to that birthday party, but not enough to let Emile buy her clothes.

“I could advance you—”

“No,” she cut him off. “I told you. I’m keeping up with my hours. You won’t owe me again until you get back from your road trip.” Anyway, she couldn’t afford to buy party clothes that she would wear once. She was going to need a winter coat soon—plus in a euphoric moment of wanting to surprise Emile by speaking French, she’d downloaded a Rosetta Stone subscription to her phone. It might have been unwise to spend the money, but she didn’t regret it, and she intended to use his time on the road to master at least a few phrases. He stood and ran his fingers through his hair. “You confound me. But I must go to stretch. I am meeting Swifty, Thor, and Mikhail.”

“Emile,” she called after him. “Do you need a birthday gift for Sharon?” He’d given her a credit card to use for household purchases. She left the receipts on his desk, but she couldn’t tell that he ever looked at them.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. I did not think of it. You can get something nice? And wrap it pretty?”

“Oh, yes. That’s well within my skill set—especially the wrapping.” She’d get that autumn leaf paper she’d seen at Foolscap and Vellum and embellish the package with moss green velvet ribbon, a cluster of artificial acorns, and some dried wheat. Perfect for a fall birthday. As for the gift—maybe some lovely linen napkins or a crystal liquor decanter. Emile said Sharon invited him for holidays, so she must like to entertain.

“See? You are so good at doing the things I need done. I should give you a gift—a bonus. Perhaps of sparkly clothes. Oui?

“Non.”

“If you change your mind, you have the card.”

“I won’t.”

“I tried.” He turned to go but called over his shoulder. “Ma chérie? I will be going alone.”

And I’ll be waiting for you when you come home. But she wouldn’t have dared to speak those words aloud.

• • •

By the time Emile got in his car, he was firm in what he was going to do. First, he found Snow’s website and dialed the number listed. It went straight to a voicemail message that informed Emile that Snow would be out of the country until November, but he would return all calls then. Just leave a name and number.

No fucking way. He was Emile Giroux, best goaltender in the league according to Sports Illustrated, and Sports Illustrated didn’t lie. He wasn’t leaving a damn thing.

Out of the country. Even better.

“Miles?” he said as soon as his agent answered. “Get me Cameron Snow’s private cell number.”

“Emile, are you about to do something stupid?”

“No, my friend. I am going to do something very smart.”

“I’ve told you,” Miles said. “He had every legal right to the money. It sucks, but it’s true. She did it to herself.”

“You’re right about the money. I know that. But I’m going to get Amy’s belongings back. They are hers, and she had a right to them.”

“Does she want you to interfere in this?”

“She wants her things back.” Technically, Amy had told him to stay out of it, but as long as he didn’t rat the bastard out to his wife and new in-laws, Amy would be all right with it—especially when she had her things back.

Miles was quiet for moment. “You didn’t answer my question, but all right. I’ll get back to you.”

“Text me the number. I’m going to stretch.” Not that he intended to go into class until he took care of this. He just didn’t want to talk to Miles about it again.

His mind was made up, and he was surer that he was right than he’d ever been in his life. The very idea of Amy only having—what was it? Five? Seven garments? Garments that she was grateful to have!

Sure enough, just as he pulled into the parking lot of the yoga studio, his phone signaled that he had a text. Most excellent, as Packi would say.

If he was quick and lucky, he wouldn’t even be late for the class. He could be quick, but lucky was out of his hands.

But luck showed up. “Snow, here.”

“Bonjour, Cameron. We met last year, and you gave me your card. This is Emile Giroux.”

This was met with silence.

“I am a goaltender with the Nashville Sound. You are the agent of my teammate, Jan Voleck.”

“I know who Emile Giroux is. I’m just trying to decide if this is someone pulling a prank on me.”

Yes, it is—but not as you think, connard.

“I have no time for pranks. I am late for stretch, and I go on the road tomorrow.”

Snow laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. He had no right to laugh, to feel happy. “Sorry. This is a surprise, a welcome one to be sure. What can I do for you?”

“I wish to meet with you. We play the Ducks tomorrow night and the Kings on Saturday. I can give you a half hour immediately after the game either night. You may choose.”

“Well, the thing is . . . ”

“Yes?” Emile said impatiently.

“I’m not in California. I’m in Milan. On my honeymoon.”

“I see.” He’d be damned if he’d congratulate him.

“So I can’t make either of those days.”

“Ah,” Emile said shortly. “I understand. Have a good day. Or evening. I do not know of the time in Milan. Goodbye.” Or care. It was too bad that it didn’t sound as if he’d wakened him.

“Wait! Wait.” The sound of desperation in his voice was sweet.

“Oui?”

“I will make meeting with you my first priority when I get back in the country on November first. I can fly straight to Nashville, or wherever you are. Or any other time and place that is acceptable to you.”

“The times and places that are acceptable to me are after my games tomorrow night and Saturday night in California.”

There was silence.

“I must go now,” Emile said.

“Wait. I’m thinking.” There was another moment of silence. “All right. I’ll be at the game in L.A. You say right after the game?”

“Oui. Directly.” He intended to meet him sweaty and in full pads. “Meet me in the tunnel.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go someplace where we can sit and have a drink? There are some good restaurants in the Staples Center. You’ll be hungry.”

Hungry to see the look on your face when you find out I know Amy and what I have to say to you. “No time for that. I will have to get on the team plane and leave for San Jose. I will be fed.” Did this man know nothing of how a hockey team operated on the road? “It will be fine. I’ve done my homework. It won’t take long for us to come to an agreement.”

Snow laughed in a very satisfied way. “Glad to hear that. Thank you for tracking me down. I look forward to our meeting Saturday night.”

“I assure you, no more than I. Au revoir.”

Emile chuckled. Never once had he said he was looking for an agent.