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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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If eyes could kill, you'd find me six feet under by now. A perfect casket, a beautiful funeral and all.
Madam Beaufort hasn't taken her eyes off me in the past twenty minutes. Seeing as it was her idea to get dinner together, one would think she'd focus more on the food and her stomach, not me. I mean I know I'm good looking, but still.
And I don't know why Ivy thought it was a good idea to leave me with her “mother?” Who she also happens to refer to as Madam Beaufort. It suddenly hits me that there's a lot I don't know, and I think I would want to find out.
Meanwhile, Ivy has been at the counter getting our orders together. And what's worse, I can't seem to look away from Madam Beaufort either as she makes it seem and looks offensive to do so.
I say a silent prayer to my heavenly father, that Ivy gets back here as soon as possible and can we drop the awkward staring contest in her presence. God answers my prayers fast, because Ivy is back with us, but Madam Beaufort's eyes never leave mine.
“You're freaking him out.” Ivy states flatly, her voice, lifeless, like the first time we met. I don't know if it's because we're in London, but her British accent sounds a little more British than usual, and for some reason it makes my skin crawl and at the same time, I find it hot.
“He hasn't moved since.” Madam Beaufort replies without so much as taming her eyes off me. “Composure, a hundred percent.”
A hundred percent composure? I feel like shouting at myself in the middle of this hotel's restaurant. I don't say that out loud though.
“Now it's seventy, what a disappointment.” She breaks eye contact and her eyes meet the empty table. Her eyes meet Ivy's and they hold each other in an unblinking stare for a few seconds.
“Thought you were getting the Food?”
“What are the waiters for, Madam?”
“Very well, then.” Her eyes meet mine and back to Ivy, who hasn't looked at me since we took the elevator up here. “Does he not speak?”
“Pleasure to meet you, Ma'am.” I blurt.
“Hmm, pleasure to meet me? Ma'am?” A weird smile graces her face. “How very American.”
“He is American.” Ivy crosses her legs and buries her face in the magazine she took from the table to her laps. “Wouldn't it bother you if he sounded German or worse, French?”
The waiter brings our orders to the table.
“There's a foreigner on their team, right?”
“Was, and he was Italian and not French in any way.” Ivy tilts her head to the side. “You're definitely getting old.”
“Alexander Hidalgo was it? In the past I've had business with his family members, dramatic bunch.” Madam Beaufort sighs. “And back to you.” She's faces me as she digs into her food. “Goaltender, right?”
