When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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Why didn't anyone mention that packing would be so damn stressful?
My apartment in the city is tiny. With only eight hundred square feet of space, I hardly have room to movemost days. What I assumed would be an easy job to pack has become horrendous. I didn't realize just how much stuff I had. The glasses in the kitchen cupboards alone took up the space of three boxes.
I shouldn't be sweating. It reminds me how out of shape I am, even when my body doesn't look like it. My metabolism will slow down at some point, and when it does, hopefully, I'll be too old to care.
Taping the third box closed, I push it to the side and reach for another one when my phone starts to ring. Shit.
With one of my hands holding the box and the tape gun in the other, I awkwardly answer the phone without checking who it is, pressing it between my ear and shoulder. "Hello?"
Silence for a few beats, and then, "Aria?"
At the sound of my mother's voice, the tape gun and box fall from my hands. It's not often I hear from her, but when I do, I normally let her calls go to voicemail. "Hi, Mom."
"Your father and I have been waiting to hear about this new job of yours. Brian said you're doing really well."
"He did?"
"Yes. We spoke last week."
Another awkward silence. One that I'm responsible for, but every single time we speak to each other, I don't know what to say. They want to hear about my life, but if I told them, what good would it do? Bring more guilt to the surface? Bring them more pain than they already bear? I'm a constant reminder to them of what failure represents. I've never been the daughter they deserved.
"The job is going well," I admit. "I'm busy most of the time now that I travel for away games, but it's...a nice change of pace."
"That's great to hear," she replies, a bit of warmth entering her voice. "You're happy?"
No. I'll never be happy, but telling her that won't help matters.
"Yes," I lie. "I am."
So much for thinking I'm someone who always owns up to their shit and tells the truth.
A ragged exhale echoes through the receiver, causing my stomach to twist into a hard knot. "Your father will be relieved to hear that. Do you think you'll come home to visit for the holidays in a few months? Your father and I could fly there if your schedule is too busy."
My answer is always the same, and each time, plans are never made. "Maybe. I'll let you both know. I hate to cut this call short, but I'm in the middle of packing. I'm moving to that place on the outskirts of the city, remember?"
Another long pause. "Oh, yes. You did tell us that. Will you be sure to send us photos?"
"I will."
"Okay." I can tell she wants to stay on longer, but she knows how this will end. "We'll talk soon. Love you, honey."
