A Lie for a Lie (All In 1)

An hour later we’re seated at the table, plates full of steak, twice-baked potatoes, and crispy brussels sprouts cooked in bacon fat. I open a bottle of red wine and offer Lainey a glass.

“Just a little bit? I’m not sure I like red wine.”

“Maybe you just haven’t had the right red wine.” I pour a little into her glass.

She picks it up and gives it a swirl, then sniffs it. “I’ve seen people do this in the movies, but I don’t really know what the point is,” she admits, then tips the glass back and takes a tentative sip. Her expression turns thoughtful; then she takes another, slightly more robust sip. “This is actually really nice. I like it. Maybe the red wine I had before was bad.”

“Maybe. Some of the cheap stuff tastes pretty awful.” I pour more into her glass before filling mine. I hold up my glass and wait for her to raise hers. “To chance meetings.”

“To new adventures and great company to share them with.” We toast and take a sip, each smiling behind the rim.

Dinner is fantastic. I can get by on my own, but back home I have someone come in to prep my meals for me, because I don’t have a lot of time during the season and my diet is pretty strict. Nothing beats a good meal cooked by someone who knows what they’re doing.

“Tell me more about your family.”

“Like what?” She pops a brussels sprout into her mouth and chews thoughtfully.

“What do your parents do for a living?”

“They’re dairy farmers. I have to admit, I haven’t missed getting up at the crack of dawn to milk cows the past couple of days, although there really hasn’t been a dawn to speak of either.” Lainey takes another sip of her wine. Her glass is almost empty.

“I grew up on a farm too. Gotta say I don’t miss those early mornings either.” I uncork the wine and refill her glass and mine.

Lainey sits up straighter, and her eyes go wide with that excitement I’ve seen a few times already tonight. “Oh! What kind of farmers?”

“Alpaca.”

“Really? That must have been so fun! They’re just so adorable.”

“They can be—when you’re not trying to shear them, anyway.”

She leans in closer, eager for more information. “Tell me all about that. I want to know everything. How often do they mate? What’s it like to raise them? Did you get attached? Did they all have names?” She’s just so sweet.

I laugh and tell her all about my childhood growing up on an alpaca farm, happy to have something else in common that I can share with her.

“And is that what you do now? Farm alpacas?”

I hesitate, weighing my options. For the first time in years I feel . . . normal. Being here, in this place with so many good memories—of the time before hockey took over my life, when I was just RJ enjoying my summer and fishing and being a regular guy. I want to hold on to that for as long as can.

There’s no pressure, no self-doubt that she’s only interested because of my career and my bank account. Besides, what’s the harm in telling her a little white lie? In a different life, if I hadn’t been such a good hockey player, I would be an alpaca farmer. “It’s what I grew up doing.” It’s not a straight answer—so not a complete lie, but not the truth either.

“That’s so great. Do you have other siblings who work with you?”

“Both my brother and sister decided on other professions. My brother works in animation, and my sister wants to work in sports therapy. She’s still in school.”

“That’s so nice. All of my brothers went into dairy farming. One of my sisters does all the bookkeeping, and my other two sisters help with distribution.”

I shift the conversation away from myself, feeling uncomfortable that I just blatantly lied to her. “So you’re the only one who didn’t go into dairy farming? Was that hard?”

Lainey looks down at her glass and shrugs. “I still help out, but I didn’t go to school for anything agriculture related. At first it was tough. My family likes to stick together, and they’re pretty protective of me—being the youngest and all—but I really enjoy learning, so I keep finding new things I love to study.” She leans back in her chair and cups her glass of wine in her palms, like she’s holding a bowl. “What about you? Did you go to college?”

“For a couple of years, but school wasn’t my favorite. I like to be moving instead of sitting.”

“Mmm. Yes. I can see that.” Her eyes drift over my T-shirt-covered chest, and she bites her lip. I don’t think she’s being coy, just honest. She clears her throat and touches the back of her hand to her flushed cheek. “I think this wine is going to my head. Is it really warm in here?”