She grabs her phone, and I see her pulling up a reminder app. She types something. From my vantage point, it appears to be “train ticket.”
“Train ticket?”
“Yes, Mr. Nosy.” She sets the phone down. “I’m reminding myself to book my ticket to New York. I need to do it way in advance this time because it gets really busy on Thanksgiving. Last year I ended up having to take a later train that didn’t get in until four in the morning.”
“You spending Thanksgiving with your parents?”
She stretches out beside me again. “Just my dad.” She pauses. “My mom passed away.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.” I stroke my palm along her bare arm. Then I note how weird it is to be lying in bed with her, just talking. But I’m still limp from our trip to the bone zone. The Jaws of Life couldn’t pry me off this bed right now. “Are you close with your dad?” I ask.
Her head lightly bumps my shoulder as she nods. “Very close. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”
“What does he do?” I’m not sure why I’m asking all these questions. It’s not a habit of mine to try to get to know the chicks I’m sleeping with. But Allie is different. She’s Wellsy’s best friend, for starters. And it doesn’t feel right to wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am her.
“He was a scout for the Bruins,” she reveals.
“No shit?” I’m highly impressed. “He must know his hockey then. Did he play?”
“In college. He was drafted by the Kings, but he tore his ACL during training camp so his career kind of ended before it even began. I think he was relieved, though. He always says he was better at finding the talent than being the talent.”
“Still, that’s a tough job,” I point out. “He must have been traveling all the frickin’ time.”
“He was. That part sucked, how often he was away. But Mom and I coped. After she died, Dad would take me with him when he could, but most of the time I stayed with my aunt in Queens.”
“Is he retired now?”
She stiffens slightly. “Yeah. He is.” Another pause. “So what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Where are you from again? Connecticut?”
“Yup. Greenwich. And Manhattan. My family split our time between the two, but I went to high school in Connecticut.”
“Prep school,” she corrects.
I tweak her hair. “Still considered high school.”
“Sure, but I bet you got a ton more perks there than I did at Washington Public in Brooklyn. You spoiled brat.” I can hear in her voice that she’s teasing. “And you didn’t answer what you’re doing for the holiday.”
“I’m not sure yet,” I admit. “Timing wise, I’m kinda screwed. We play Harvard two days after Thanksgiving.”
“So? Greenwich isn’t that far from here. Neither is Manhattan. You can hop a train or flight to either and still be back in time for the game.”
“My family won’t be in Greenwich or Manhattan. They’ll be at the house in St. Bart’s.”
Allie sits up again, her mouth agape. Then she starts to laugh. “Well lah-di-dah.” In the next breath, she affects a flawless British accent. “Why, yes, dear boy, my family does indeed own a home in St. Bart’s. Fahtha is an avid sailor, and Mutha simply adores sipping mimosas on our private beach.”
I poke her in the side. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of course I am. You have a house in St. Bart’s. That’s badass.” Her expression is thoughtful. “Your parents are lawyers, right?”
I nod.
“I didn’t realize lawyers made tropical-island-beach-house kind of money.”
“It depends on the lawyer. My dad is one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the country, so yeah, he’s doing all right,” I say wryly. “And Mom specializes in real estate law, which is also pretty lucrative. But they both came from money, too.”
“Let me guess. Grandpas Sebastian and Kendrick were oil barons?”
For some reason, I’m stupidly pleased that she remembered my middle names. “Nope, there’s no oil in our family. Grandpa Seb owned a shipping company. Well, he still owns it, but a board of directors runs it now. And Gramps Kendrick was a real estate developer.”
“Like Donald Trump?”
“Pretty much. Did you ever go into Manhattan when you lived in Brooklyn?” I frown as something occurs to me. “Hey, how come you don’t have the Brooklyn accent?”