by Stacy Lane
“I was going to get you a blanket and a pillow,” she replies, twisting her fingers nervously.
“I can manage that myself.”
“Oh, okay. Well, good night then.”
“’Night.” I make it three steps before turning around again. “You’re still following me.”
“I have to pee, Mr. Cranky Pants,” she retorts with incredible patience.
I nod once and walk the remainder of the distance to the living room. Stepping down the two steps into the open space, I hear the gentle click of the bathroom door closing.
There’s a soft cream throw blanket folded up inside a straw basket in the corner of the room. I snatched it up along my way to the leather couch. Brooks has a couple sofa pillows that have no purpose, but I’m about to give them one. I don’t need proper pillows and blankets. I just need to sleep.
Dropping all my body weight onto the cushions, I groan with satisfaction and discomfort. My exhausted body is thankful to be laying down, but the agitated pang in my back leaves me restless.
I roll around, side to side, front to back, trying to find the most comfortable position to sleep. The hit, though slight as it was, has caused my back to throb and my legs to tingle with a numbing soreness. Nothing to be concerned about, the irritated muscles are a part of my daily life now, but typically I avoid any direct contact to the source of my injury as a rule.
Groaning, I turn over once more just as Chelsea appears in the gallery. Her gentle footsteps track across the living room and into the kitchen behind where I lay. Cabinets open and close. The filtered water system attached to the refrigerator shatters the quietness as she fills her cup.
My eyes remain closed as I hear her retracing footsteps. Until I feel her presence closer than it should be.
I pop open my eyes. Chelsea stands between me and the coffee table, the city lights framing her silhouette. The mounds of thick curls around her face fall past her shoulders as she bends to place a cup of water and a small orange and white bottle on the glass.
“Just in case your back is hurting, but you’re too stubborn to admit it,” Chelsea says with gentleness, with concern. She doesn’t push or nag, it’s just kindness that’s embedded in her and could never be faulted for.
I stare at the Motrin bottle as she retreats to her room. Right as she steps onto the raised level of the gallery, I call out, “Chelsea. Thank you.”
It’s too dark to see it with my own eyes, but I know what I would find if there were enough light. Because Chelsea is always smiling. “You’re welcome. Good night, Alex.”
I swallow the pills down with water, and toss back my head on the couch once again, gazing up into the nighttime glow of the room. Releasing a heavy sigh, I close my eyes and fall asleep when the pain finally recedes.
CHAPTER 2
CHELSEA
I’VE BEEN TOLD plenty of times I have a wild imagination. A creative mind. Never did I envision to exist in the same town as the Labelle triplets.
In the world of hockey, the triplets were well known, and well beyond just any one’s reach. Meeting them, let alone becoming friends with them, is a fangirl's dream.
I grew up with hockey. My dad eats, sleeps, and breathes the sport. With four daughters and no sons, that didn’t deter him from passing on the obsession. Two of my sisters played all throughout grade school. The point is, I know hockey to a degree I could recite multiple players’ stats from many rosters. Not limited to the national league either. I’ve followed all three of the Labelle men since their high school days. Not in a creepy way, but in a glorified fan way.
Almost a year ago when I found out my ex was being traded to Tampa, I silently celebrated that I was going to get to meet Brooks Labelle. He was the only one still playing these days. The bottled excitement had to be kept to myself. I didn’t need another reason to anger Vic.
And now I thought of Brooks and Cam as friends. Alex…Well he’s…We’re not friends.
He’s not as approachable as Brooks or Cam. He’s not as charming and carefree as his brothers. Maybe the disadvantage is he doesn’t live here, so I haven’t gotten to know him as well as the others.
But there is one category that could never be challenged for the triplets. Alex is just as freaking hot as his brothers.
Skills on the ice are not the only boon in their reputations. They were sexy as hell with all that dark brown hair and light gray-blue eyes. Stories of the Labelle charm followed each of them in their careers spread across the country.
Put all three in one state and instant trifecta.
They are athletes.
They are gorgeous.
They are triplets.
That alone will have a person’s stomach twisting and brain fogging with intrigue.
As much as I equally adore and sometimes want to thwart Brooks and Cam, there hasn’t been much of an opportunity to know Alex. I’ve always labeled him in my head as the third Labelle. My husband’s soon to be boss. Or, as of most recently, my soon to be ex-husband’s boss.
Pacing inside my room the morning after Alex turned up, I debated how best to approach the unapproachable Labelle. Whether he’s asleep or awake, he was out there in the living room with that studious stare and alarmingly appealing scent. I knew he looked good, but damn, he smelled good too.
Any time I’ve entered the same room as him—a handful of times at most—my behavior goes haywire. He makes me nervous in a way that confuses the hell out of me. I hit on him once. Sort of. Not sure it counts since I was inebriated at the time and felt immediate guilt afterward. I initiated the flirtation, but only as a desperate cry for attention. I wasn’t proud of it. Then again, it backfired in a bad-but-good way.
He flirted back. At least, I’m pretty sure he had. Hard to tell with Alex. He wasn’t as forward in his pursuit of women as his brothers are. But when he locked those tempestuous eyes on me, I felt captured. Willing to let the windstorm snatch me up and not fight the emotions rushing through me.
Not that I would ever get to find out what it would be like to be swept away by him. I’m only here through the summer, and still legally wed.
A tangled, tangled mess that was not worth the effort.
I wanted effortlessness. In life. In love. I’ve spent too many years compromising to make one man happy. The only time I would compromise from here on out was if I got something out of it. Like an orgasm. No more cheat orgasms either. You know the ones. The DIY finish.
I pulled an outfit from my luggage, still alternating the month’s worth of clothing I brought with me to Vancouver during Christmas vacation with my family. I’ve only been back in Tampa for a week, and the Fury have had nothing but home games, as luck would have it. As soon as the team leaves for their last road game tomorrow, I’m going back to the house I once shared with Vic to gather my belongings.
Needing to wash my face and brush my teeth, I tiptoed out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom. The living room was not visible from here, but I kept an ear out for any sign of life in that general direction.
Nothing.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and tame the wild mane of curls with routine hair products. Lifting the tube of red lipstick sitting beside the sink, I bring it to my mouth and apply before heading for the kitchen.
Coffee turned out to be the grip on the control I settled with. Alex could stare and brood all he wants as long as I had a full cup of my morning cappuccino in hand while he did it.
An early riser, even with a three a.m. wake-up call, I bounded across the spacious penthouse apartment. The first rays of sunshine leaked through the tall wall of windows in the living room and kitchen.
Alex sat up on the couch, wearing the same clothes he wore last night, and typed away on his cell phone. I wasn’t sure if he was aware of my presence and started to speak, but he beat me to it.
“Morning, Chelsea.” Alex’s rough morning voice rumbled in the silence like the engine of a sports car. Heard with certainty, but was also felt with every vibra
tion as it moved through me.
“Good morning.” I paused in stride momentarily until I realized he had no intention of looking up from his phone or speaking to me further beyond a polite greeting.
In the kitchen, I reach for a white mug and place it on the fancy espresso machine. Brooks started to take it with him when we moved his things to Jo’s, but she didn’t want it. She was against any coffee machine with a single serve option. Said she was old-fashioned and liked making a full pot of coffee even if she wouldn’t drink it all.
Fine by me. This machine was my new favorite partner in life. I was all but in fuck-marriage-mode, yet I’d tie myself in whatever legal way possible to this beautiful coffee making goddess.
Pouring milk into the vat on the side, I press a couple buttons and let it do its thing. Remaining nearby to sniff the strong scent blooming from the machine, I peek glances across the way. Alex sits with the back of his short brown hair facing me.
As I’m gazing at the thin strip of tan skin on the nape of his neck, Alex’s hand raises, fingers scraping beneath his hairline as if he feels my eyes on that particular spot.
Chills rack my body as my greedy eyes jump to those fingers. Little bumps swarm my arms and thighs in a sudden wave, which makes no sense with this Florida heat. Though it may be cold inside the apartment, the humidity made every place, inside or outside, feel like the clammy heat of Satan’s ball sack. The fact that shivers were running down my spine and causing tingles to invade my fingers and toes was a total conundrum.
I spun on my heel when Alex started to stand. No longer creeping on the guy who spent the night seemed to settle the goosebumps slightly.
The coffee beeped once it finished. Turned away from Alex, I drank the milky cappuccino, grabbed my phone and laptop I set down on the counter, and turned toward the patio doors.
Over the last week, I’ve started my mornings outdoors, taking in the unique scents of a new day. The fresh air before cluttered traffic polluted it. The breeze that comes from the warm, rising sun as it kisses the water. Not all seven years of married life was terrible, but the last few were so stifling I had an appreciation for my newfound freedom.
Brooks’s apartment faced the west, so even though I couldn’t witness the sunrise off the water, the early dawn was just as lovely. City buildings were off to the right, and to the left was a portion of the Bay.
I sat in a low reclining chair, opened my laptop, and said a silent thank you for great friends as I did every morning.
I began the New Year in Vancouver, and honestly thought that’s where I would stay. Returning to Tampa never crossed my mind. British Columbia was home and I missed it the second I moved away because of Vic’s trade. But three months of guarded explanations and painful truths, not to mention the daily ritual of calming down three very angry sisters who were ready to hunt Vic down with knives in hand, I found myself needing a short break from my loyal and loving family. I just needed that extra minute to breathe.
The new friends I made in my short time were a lifeline I was so grateful for. They were giving me a chance to get my bearings together, to explore what it is that I want.
What I need.
One good thing came out of my time back home this winter. My oldest sister, Mel, pushed and pressured me to explore a long time hobby of mine. With her guidance, I created a home design blog. She actually pitched a YouTube channel but I Chuck Norris chopped that idea.
It’s been a month since I created the web page, so there weren’t many subscribers yet. But I put myself on a schedule to post blogs two times a week.
For once, my sister’s pain in the ass nagging had a good outcome.
My page centered on interior design, a craft I would have gone to college for once upon a time. But I fell in love and allowed the man to follow his dreams over of mine. Looking back, though, there is only one thing I would change if given the opportunity to do it all over again: I would have gone to school.
Yes, I would still get married, and I would still be by his side as he pursued his career. But after we settled some, I should have begun my dream.
Not every tale is a fairytale. At least I know who I am even though I fell for the dark knight.
I love decorating. I love creating a beautiful space knowing someone else can relax and enjoy their room for whatever purpose it is intended for. The best part of being a creative person, an artist, is channeling another’s personality. It’s invigorating. We’re never bored because our minds never turn off.
Now if I could just get a client to let me create that metaphorical space, I will be on my desired path.
And I’m staring down that new journey as if I were looking at the ocean or a lake or river. A beautiful sight at my disposal, ready and waiting for me to dip a toe in and test the waters.
Heck with a toe. I might just jump in.
Alex steps onto the terrace with his own cup of coffee about the time I’m halfway done with mine.
The strange tingles return.
Face tilting upward, the first thing my eyes land on is the stubble along his jaw. He’s always so polished and put together on the rare times I’ve seen him. This rugged look has my insides twisting and oozing with approval.
Alex glances down at me briefly as he slides the door closed. He does a double take, locking on my bold morning lip choice.
He pauses longer than I expect him to. Stares longer.
That calculating, snaring gaze on my red lips brings forth old and familiar waves of ridicule. I lower my eyes, submitting out of pure habit.
He sits in a chair across from me, raising the mug to his mouth. All the while, hooded, misty gray eyes remain on my lips.
I shift nervously. Memories of the day-to-day criticism I dealt with begin to fade as another awareness forms. Live wire friction zapping along the surface of my skin.
This is the flirting technique I talked about. He’s not forward with words the way other men are. Alex says more than needs to be told all within his stare.
If any eyes could verbally translate, they would speak their appreciation for my lips.
He says nothing, and I’m still vibrating with an eagerness. It’s unsettling. For all the tangled reasons, of course.
Sweet Jesus, I haven’t felt the excitement and stirrings of new attraction since the last time I was around him.
“We need to discuss our living situation,” he states matter of fact, tearing away his gaze to stretch beyond the balcony view.
Clearing my throat, a new set of nerves racked my system.
Worry. Fear.
I had nowhere else to go. Of course, Jo offered the spare room in her house, but she and Brooks just started living together, and I didn’t want to impose. Taytum, Jo’s best friend, and mine since the night I met them both lived in a one bedroom apartment with her fiancé. My dad and sisters offered to front the bill for a hotel, but I wouldn’t let them. Brooks’s offer was the most feasible.
With a friendly, appeasing tilt of my head, I say, “It’s your brother’s place, so I guess it makes more sense for me to leave.”
“If you’re staying here to begin with, I’m going to assume there’s not another option for living situations.” Alex’s all-business tone surrounds the large, narrow terrace. He crosses one leg over the other.
“I can get a hotel.”
“So can I.” His fierce, solid gaze never wavers. “But I only plan on another week or two before closing on a house. I propose we both stay here.”
“Like roommates,” I retort, mouth pinching at the oddity.
Pfft. Live with a really hot guy? I smell temptation. A dark, moody, brooding lure that—
“Hardly,” he replies with a dry scoff.
Well, excuse me.
“All I mean is, we cohabit for two weeks at most. This is a big place so I don’t see why we can’t both live here without getting in each other’s way. Unless you plan on returning to your house once Vic’s gone for the off-season.”
“I’m not
moving back to that house.” Even if I’m only here for a few months, I’d rather sleep outside with the mosquitoes and the threat of the Zika virus over returning to that house. “Do you plan on sleeping on the couch the whole time?”
“No. I’ll move into Brooks’s room. After I get a new bed.”
“Afraid you’ll catch his cooties?” I tease over the rim of my mug, cupping it with both hands.
Alex's lips tilt up on one side with a smirk. Tough crowd. Can’t the guy give in with one full smile?
“Mind if I ask why you’re here.”
Sure wasn’t stated like a question.
“Brooks offered. It was supposed to be empty.”
“That’s what I was told as well,” he grumbled under his breath. “But I meant Tampa.”
“Oh.” Closing my laptop, I set it aside on the small patio table. Crossing my legs, I pull them into me and reply, “I have a lot of sisters. And I’m the baby so they can be overprotective. I just wanted a little alone time before moving back.”
“Are you and Vic going to work things out?”
“He cheated on me,” I say, brows furrowing.
“Yes, but he’s here. And you came back.”
“He always goes home in the off-season.”
“Maybe he’ll stay when he hears you won’t be in Vancouver.”
I cock my head, wondering what part of all this he’s missing. “Am I expected to take him back after what he did?”
“Absolutely not. But this happens all the time when traveling for work is involved. Some people reconcile.”
Growing angry, mouth hanging ajar, no words come forth.
No. Words.
Is there a secret club for men where they gather monthly to give pep talks and words of wisdom from past affairs? Listening to Alex make excuses for Vic, for other men in their type of careers, like it’s acceptable to cheat on their spouses because their schedules are too demanding, has me furious.
People cheat for all kinds of reasons. Hell, one of my sisters cheated on a boyfriend years ago, and of course, I forgave her. But he didn’t, nor should he. Being a cheater doesn’t always mean you’re a terrible person, but being the one cheated on doesn’t mean we have to forgive.