Rewind It Back (Windy City, #5)(4)
But my dumbass thought it was a great idea to buy a four-bedroom house twenty minutes outside of town. As if I thought I would be settling down with a family and not a still single twenty-seven-year-old all these years later.
At least I have a bit of space, a nice yard with a hot tub, and I will say, my house has become the go-to place for the team to hang, mostly because it actually fits everyone.
And who knows? Maybe my investment will end up paying off next year.
I point to Wren’s house again. “So, you redecorated? Like you got the walls painted?”
“Something like that. You want to see?” She checks the time on her phone. “I have exactly five minutes left on my study break.”
“We’ll make it a quick tour.” I follow behind her. “Next time you have a study break, dinner is on me. I’ll get takeout from that Greek place you like, and you can fill me in on all the neighborhood gossip I missed out on.”
Over her shoulder, she lifts a brow.
“The next two times?” I try again.
“I did watch your house for three months and you’re filthy rich.”
“Fine. Three nights of takeout and I’ll take your trash out to the curb every week for the next month.”
“And this is why you’re my favorite neighbor.”
That’s all we’ve ever been to one another—platonic neighbors. Don’t get me wrong, Wren is great, but I’ve never looked at her as more than a friend, and I know she feels the same way about me. I have a lot of friends who are women and she’s one of them.
She opens the front door—the freshly painted front door. It’s a deep brown that contrasts nicely against the new sage-green siding and crisp white trim.
Her flooring is the first thing I see. Brand-new hardwood in a light but warm shade. Accented walls, some covered in modern wallpaper, others painted in subtle yet inviting colors. Her stairs sport a new banister, the kitchen cabinets got a fresh coat of paint, and the countertops have been upgraded to something that feels a bit more custom. Even her light fixtures are shiny and new and seem to pull the whole space together.
“Jesus,” I exhale, spinning in a slow circle and taking it all in. “I hardly recognize the place.”
“She did an incredible job.”
“And who is she?”
Typically, I ask my friends that question in a way that silently adds: Is she single? Is she nice? Would she be interested in someone like me?
But right now, I’m more so wondering who the hell turned this plain house into a magazine-worthy home and if she’s available to do the same to mine.
It’s a far cry from the builder-grade box Wren’s brother originally bought, and if I end up putting my place up for sale at the same time as him next summer, I’m going to be fucked. No one is going to take a second glance at my house when his looks like this.
Wren gives me a tour of the second story. The loft is now configured to be a game room or a potential playroom, depending on the buyer. The upstairs bedrooms all have their own unique designs that breathe that same luxury and custom feel as the rest of the house.
But as she walks me down the hallway, I stop when I find a bed in one of her spare rooms. The upstairs rooms have always been empty, unlike the guest room downstairs where her brothers crash when they’re in town.
I point to the bare mattress sitting on a bed frame. “Are you getting a roommate or something, Wilder?”
“Actually, I am. Once her current lease is up in October.”
That’s surprising to hear because for years now it’s been the two of us living alone in our stupidly big houses. Though, the reasons for our empty homes could not be more different.
Wren studies too much and never wanted roommates, and her brother is loaded enough to make that happen for her. While I’m the sad fucking sap that was waiting for someone who never came along.
“Why?” is all I can think to ask.
“Why am I now getting a roommate? Because she needed an affordable place to live, and we get along well. She’s actually the lead designer on the house. She was here every day this summer and we became friends. Plus, she works all the time and will only really be here to sleep.” She nods down the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”
The bathrooms are redone with fresh tile and modern fixtures. There are fancy picture lights hanging over framed photos along the hall. Even the fucking laundry room is cool and dark and moody.
“Well, I’m screwed,” I state plainly. “My place is never going to sell when it’s competing against this.”
“Cruz wasn’t messing around when he said he wanted a return on his investment.” She swats me on the shoulder. “You could do the exact same thing, you know. Hire a designer. Upgrade that hockey frat house of yours if you’re serious about selling.”
Am I serious about selling? I’m not sure yet, but I didn’t sign my early contract extension with the Raptors last season for a reason. I wasn’t sure I was ready to sign six more years of my life away from Boston. Away from my hometown. Away from my family.
This is probably the last big contract of my career and I’m at a crossroads that I need to decide if I want to spend the entirety of my hockey years playing for Chicago or if I want to try to test free agency and fulfill my childhood dream of playing for the Boston Bobcats.