Page 55

"Oh, good," she sings. "I was headed back from our outreach meeting and just had to grab something."

I glance down at the pink rectangular box in her hand, then my eyes shoot up to meet hers. "Is that a pregnancy test?"

She snorts, her eyes wide. "Oh, God, no. Total opposite actually—ovulation test. I love Max, and I've calmed down a lot, but there is too much to be done for babies right now." She shivers like the thought alone could freak her out, then pauses. "Someday though. What are you here for?"

"Oh, just a few things to hold me over."

She nods, peering down to scan the items in my basket, making me ridiculously self-conscious about the ones that aren't for me.

"Ooh, I love a good chamomile," she says. "I drink a cup every night before bed now that the idea of getting real sleep doesn't send me into a spiral."

I chuckle to myself.

Sadie was always a workaholic before she met Max. He helped to slow her down, she straightened him up—and now she and my goofy big brother are the perfect pair.

"I've heard good things," I say back, my voice an octave higher than it needs to be.

She grins and taps the box in her hand against her palm. "Alright, I better go. I told Max I was stopping for ice cream, so you know he's waiting by the door."

"You two have fun with that."

She pulls me into another hug. "It was good to see you. Stop by the rink sometime on your day off—maybe I can introduce you to some of the boys."

She winks, and for some reason, it makes my stomach churn.

I smile anyway and wave as she glides back down the aisle at her usual relentless pace she must still be holding on to.

When she disappears around the corner, I look back down at my basket.

Chamomile tea. Magnesium. A lavender candle I don't even need.

Apparently I'm grocery shopping for a man who has treated me like he would anyone on the street every time we interact—polite. Cordial. But not like he used to. Not like he would if he still…

Cared.

If he still knew me.

A voice booms out over the loudspeaker paging Tammy to her register, and it brings with it a heavy dose of reality.

I don't exactly know him either anymore.

I might think I do because for me things never changed. And because he's Jace Holloway. There's no one in the city—in the world probably—who hasn't at least heard his name. Who, because of the internet and social media, doesn't feel like they know him at least a little bit.

But it's not the same.

I wouldn't know anymore if he eats sunflower seeds or if he still smells like cedar and body wash. If he sucks on lollipops on his way home from his games or if Happy Gilmore is still his comfort movie.

But apparently, I'm itching to find out.

I start to picture how he might react when he sees me at his door—Grover's bag in hand like Sadie with Max. Only that would make sense. This definitely doesn't.

And then the next thought hits me.

I know his building, obviously. But there are hundreds of apartments inside, and I have no idea which one is his.

I could probably guess that he's closer to the top—privacy and appearances and all that. But I don't know the number. And there's no way the doorman is going to tell me which place belongs to the Gators' starting shortstop without permission. You probably need a special key for the elevator to get there anyway.

Damn, he is famous.