engleză
I already know more about Magnus Lundgren than I should. Thirty-one. Swedish. Bought his mother a house. Still uses a flip phone. It's all on my spreadsheet, which I started to help my sister land a pro hockey player.
But then she got engaged to the team's coach, and suddenly the man who was row one, column A of my spreadsheet is standing in my living room. He doesn't flirt or chase, but he shows up every time I need him and sometimes for no reason at all. He lets my five-year-old drag him to the floor to play cars and helps me study for nursing school exams. There's just one thing he won't do, and that's get attached to anyone or anything he can't pack into a suitcase.
He's made an art form out of keeping people at arm's length. I'm freakishly good at keeping men out of my life entirely, because men who can find a reason to leave always do.
Nothing that feels this good lasts. Both of us know that. But no matter what chaos is surrounding me and my boys, Magnus keeps showing up. And I'm starting to see that the most dangerous thing he's done isn't making me worry he'll leave, but making me believe he might be the one who stays.
