Page 42 of The Playmaker
“I’m okay with that.”
“I’m not.” She casts me an almost apologetic look. “I know you’re starving, but do you think you can hold off on eating for a little bit longer?”
“We could always grab fast food at the drive-through.”
“No, when we get back, I’m making us a proper lunch.”
Us.
Damn, I like the sound of that.
“We could eat at your place.”
“No, I haven’t had a chance to go grocery shopping, since I was so busy with work and helping you and learning hockey.”
“You could at least hook me up with a granola bar. Who doesn’t have a box of granola bars stuffed in the cupboard, right?”
“I’m sure I can find you one.”
Ten minutes later, she parks on the street in front of her place. “Wait here, okay,” she says as I reach for the door handle. “I’ll bring you out a granola bar.”
“Nope.” I open the door, and she frantically jumps out from her side and plants her hands on her hips. “You might have to carry something heavy.”
“And you’re supposed to be taking it easy,” she shoots back, but from the near panicked look on her face, I get the sense there’s something else going on.
“I’m helping, Nina,” I say adamantly.
“Fine,” she says and huffs off. “Hurry up then.”
“Concussion, remember,” I say as I race to catch up.
“Yeah, only when it’s convenient,” she says with a sardonic smile.
“You weren’t complaining last night.”
“Shh, I don’t want my neighbors to hear that.”
Okay, okay I get it. She doesn’t want anyone to know about us. She fishes her key from her purse, and I follow her into her condo. “Nice place,” I say, glancing around.
“Wait here,” she says, and puts her hand to my chest to keep me in her front entranceway. “I don’t want you touching any of my stuff.”
“And here I let you touch all of my stuff,” I say, my voice holding all kinds of sexual innuendoes.
“You’re a funny guy, Cole,” she says, and disappears down a short hallway.
“I’m here all week,” I shoot back as she disappears into her bedroom. Unable to help myself, I step into her condo and glance around her living room. Nice, tidy, a buttery-yellow sofa with some throw pillows, a coffee table and small television. Across from the sofa there’s a bookshelf filled with romance novels. It’s all very Nina-like, and what I expected.
“Almost done,” she calls out.
I make my way to her kitchen, and a stack of envelopes on her table catches my eyes—the red overdue notices, to be precise.
What the hell? How could Nina be hurting for money? Cason set up that trust fund for her ages ago.
Even though it’s not in my nature to pry, I open one of her cupboards and find only a few boxes of crackers. Shit. Why didn’t she tell me she was broke?
I hear movement in the bedroom and hurry back to the front hall. I don’t want to embarrass her, but I have no idea why she has no food and bills piled up. Christ, her brother started a trust fund for her when he signed his first contract. Why isn’t she using the money when times are tight?
I glance around the place, my mind racing. She never liked me much, so the fact that she came to me for help must have been hard on her—must have been a last resort. She needs to write these books, of that much I’m sure, and dammit, I need to help her more than I ever realized.