by Elise Faber
She didn’t say a single word.
Twenty
Char
Twinkling lights in the sky.
Cool air.
The man sitting five feet away.
Eight years, and she felt like she was right back in the past. The cool air surrounding them, the quiet of the night all around, the stars overhead. She’d been transported back in time, the only things missing were Logan’s arms around her, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her ear, his scent in her nose.
He’d told her why.
He’d given her the explanation she wanted, and if she were being entirely truthful with herself, it was also the explanation she was hoping for.
He hadn’t wanted to leave her. He hadn’t moved right on to someone else. He . . . still loved her.
But—
Char sucked in a breath.
But what?
But . . . did the explanation make any bit of difference? He’d still hurt her, he’d broken her, made her question everything in her heart and mind.
She released the breath, blinked up at the sky, and admitted the truth, if only to herself.
Yes, the explanation made a difference. It made a big difference.
It was only—
Char was still scared. She yearned for a family, and if she were being honest, a part of her had never stopped loving Logan either, even when she’d been hurt and heartbroken. But—
Fuck.
All of these buts.
She wasn’t a woman who second-guessed herself frequently. She used her brain, thought through the pros and cons, weighed those options, and then she made a decision. And stuck with it.
Still, to get confirmation that Logan had been trying to protect her changed the way their breakup was framed in her mind. He wasn’t an asshole trying to hold tightly to his bachelor days. He was a man trying to protect the woman he’d loved so she could go out and live her life.
It was the news she wanted to hear.
But—another fucking but—it also sliced her to the core.
Because he hadn’t discussed it with her. He’d thought he’d known the best course of action, and he’d executed it without once coming and explaining why. Though, and this was part of the reason for all the buts, she was now thirty years old. She was stubborn as hell. But her thirty years had garnered her some clarity, some understanding that the world, that people and their emotions didn’t work in black and white or right and wrong.
She’d also had thirty years to understand that she could be a stubborn pain in the ass, and that it was very likely that if Logan had told her his worries when she’d been a headstrong twenty-two-year-old, then she would have done her level best to prove them wrong . . . even to her own detriment.
So, had he made the right call?
Another inhale and exhale. Another long, slow breath to center her mind.
Yes. Conservatively, she could say that much.
But did it still hurt? Yes. And did she still hate that he hadn’t talked to her about it? Yes. And did she really fucking hate that he’d seen fit to end any hope of reconciliation by orchestrating a media stunt that had stomped on her already shattered heart? Hell fucking yes, she did.
Then add in that Luc had known about their relationship, that he’d conspired with Logan to separate them, and Char’s heart felt both healed and a little bruised.
Their intentions had been good.
But they’d still been making decisions about her life without her.
And she couldn’t deny that hurt, especially when so many years had passed and neither of them had ever discussed it with her.
Even as she made a mental note to call Luc this week—she needed to hear his side from himself, to ask him why he’d never talked to her about it, especially when she’d clearly been so distraught in the days and weeks after the trade. Of course, she hadn’t talked to him about it either. She’d gone to him and put in her resignation but wouldn’t tell him why, and by the time he’d told her he wouldn’t accept it, Logan had been on the gossip sites and she’d wanted something, anything to throw herself into.
To work so hard until she forgot.
She had worked.
Long and intently and, in many ways, she had forgotten—the effect Logan had on her, how her heart always seemed more open when he was around, how he looked at her as though she held the secrets to the universe, and how he touched her like she was a fragile treasure that had to be treated oh so carefully.
“I think that’s what hurt the most.”
Char was so lost in her own head that she didn’t realize she spoke aloud until Logan’s voice came from just behind her. “What hurt the most, Starlight?”
She jumped then turned to face him. “That I had pinned all of these hopes and dreams on a relationship with you, one that was gone in an instant.” Heart aching, she admitted, “But now what hurts the most is that you thought you knew better about my life than I did. That Luc never mentioned it to me.” She sighed heavily. “That I almost gave up everything for a boy.”
He wasn’t a boy now—all long, lean lines and a sparse beard.
He was a man—one who’d grown into his height, who was strong and fierce and . . . whose thick, full beard she wanted to feel between her thighs.
Attraction wasn’t the issue.
Rather, she felt as though her weaknesses had been exposed to the sunlight, and she was ashamed and embarrassed. Not to have loved him, but because she was supposed to be strong, and at the end of it all, she’d been a pale approximation of herself.
“I understand why you did it,” she said. “And I forgive you for it.”
His breath shuddered out, relief flooding his expression.
“But I don’t know if I can forgive myself.”
“I—” He stopped, studied her closely. “I’m not sure what you mean, Starlight.”
“It’s just—” Char sighed and slipped between him and the railing, pacing away from him again. “All my life, I’ve been this strong, powerful woman. Confident in myself, seeing what I wanted and unerringly going after that. And . . . I almost gave up everything for a months’ long relationship that was unlikely to have survived our Stupid Years.”
Logan made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, and she whirled around.
“I’m serious!” she exclaimed. “I just don’t know how I could have thought I was making the right choice by giving up everything I was working for. It makes—” She cringed, unable to verbalize it.
“It makes you doubt the person you were inside.”
Shocked, because that was exactly how she felt, she turned and gaped at him. “How—?”
A sad smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Because that’s exactly how I’ve felt every single day since I left.”
“Oh.”
One syllable.
A worthless one, at that.
And yet, she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Then she thought of the only thing she could say. Because she didn’t want to send Logan away. He was in her heart, had always been, would always be. So, maybe she needed to reflect on their relationship and subsequent breakup, needed to have a nice long think about what had happened, what had been kept from her, and how it would apply to the person she thought she was today.
Maybe those doubts would coalesce into clarity.
Maybe they would destroy the strong, infallible person she thought she was.
But she knew that she was too raw inside to search for those answers tonight, not after the stark longing at the party, not after having confirmation that hers and Logan’s relationship hadn’t ended as she’d once suspected.
Tonight, she wanted to forget. Not about what might be, nor about the past, or well, not all of it anyway. She wanted to erase everything that had happened from the time Logan had been traded all the way until he’d shown up at her office two days before.
She wanted to go back and to move forward.
She wanted warm ar
ms and cool evening air and stars overhead.
Which was why she said that one thing aloud. “Come here.”
No hesitation from Logan. Not a heartbeat or a moment to breathe. One second he was five feet away from her and in the next, the toes of his shoes were brushing against hers.
She shuddered and melted and . . . leaned into him.
And when those warm arms found her, when they wrapped around her like they used to, Char knew that everything had altered even as absolutely nothing had changed.
Twenty-One
Logan
His back was on fire. His shoulder ached.
The entire right side of his body was asleep.
But he wasn’t going to move a muscle.
Char was cuddled up next to him, not gone to the world, but awake and close and allowing him to hold her as she watched the moon and the constellations shift across the sky overhead.
She smelled like roses and spice. Her curvy body fit perfectly against his, as they’d somehow managed to squeeze themselves onto one of the loungers on her deck.
The woman he’d loved for nearly a decade was in his arms.
So, no, he wasn’t moving, not one millimeter.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked. Her voice was hushed, even though it wasn’t particularly late, but there was something about being outside after dark, the world muted around them, that gave him the same urge to talk quietly as well, to pretend that nothing else existed except the two of them.
“Yeah, Starlight, I do.” He smiled. “You told me I smelled.”
She snorted. “Well, what else could I have done? I was assaulted from the stench of all those male bodies.” A shudder flowed through her, but he didn’t mind that it was at his expense, not when the movement brought her closer, all those curves vibrating against him.
“There’s a reason we shower,” he said.
“That’s true,” she said. “But it was also a combination of not having the right protocols in place.”
“What do you mean?”
“The equipment manager had left. Do you remember that?” she asked, leaning back slightly. Instinctively, he tightened his arms, and he caught the edge of her smile as she rested her head back onto his chest.
He stroked a hand down her hair. “He went to rehab.”
“Yeah. He struggled with pain killers after a car accident.” She sighed. “He came back toward the end of the season and still works for Luc now, but while he was gone his second in command didn’t feel comfortable bringing issues up with management.”
“And one of those issues being our smelly asses?”
She snorted. “The issue being that the industrial washing machine wasn’t working, and so they were trying to handle things by hand.”
“By hand?”
There are a lot of players on an NHL team and loads of equipment. Sets for practice, sets for games, extras in case they were damaged. Hell, he knew more than a handful of players who had multiple pairs of skates and gloves just for one game—because they preferred them to be completely dry for each period they were on the ice.
He was a little less picky, though he was finicky about his sticks and the tape and wax he used, as well as his edges—how his skates were sharpened. Oh, and his gloves. He’d been known to take advantage of the dryers in between shifts. And he supposed he really preferred that his laces be waxed and was always sneaking out the earpieces on his helmet, and his visor . . . he preferred that—
Okay, he was a picky mofo.
But the job was his life, and he liked things a certain way.
“Yup,” she said, “by hand. Crazy, right?” She shook her head, the riotous brown curls bouncing across his chest. “Not only was it a waste of time and not effective. It was actually a health hazard.” He frowned, opened his mouth to ask how, but she nuzzled against his throat, her arm tightening over his middle, and added, “Hockey players get hit with pucks and sticks and punch each other until they bleed.”
He snorted. “We’re dumbasses.”
“Sometimes,” she admitted, making him laugh. “But aside from the occasional idiocy, the blood-stained equipment was the real concern. We can’t have someone getting a staph infection or worse.”
Logan stopped, once again amazed by this woman. “I never would have considered that in a million years,” he said, running his fingers over her cheek. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
She snorted.
“Or the medium bucks,” he amended, knowing that his contract was significantly bigger than hers.
“I’m quite satisfied with my medium bucks,” she said. “I’m not putting my body on the line like you guys, and truthfully, I only found out about the biohazard issue after I made it my mission to tackle the smell issue.”
“You got the industrial washer fixed.”
A statement, not a question. Because he knew she wouldn’t have stopped until she had sorted it out.
“I got them new washers, sanitation equipment, and an ozone cleaner.”
He laughed. “That’s why we started smelling so fresh?”
“Damn right,” she said. “Couldn’t have my nose burning every time I was within three feet of a player.”
“Did it burn near me?”
“Fuck, yes, it did.” She shifted, crossing her arms over his chest and resting her chin on them. “You were the worst!”
“You wound me,” he groaned, tugging on a strand of her hair.
“You know you were.”
He smirked. “I do know that. Because you told me. Do you remember that part?”
Chagrin danced on the edges of her expression, and if it had been fully light, he might have seen the barest pink appear on her cheekbones. “I do,” she said then bit her lip, her voice softening. “Because it was also the first time I touched you.”
“You pushed my hair off my forehead,” he said, remembering the feel of her fingers. Such an innocent touch and, “I got hard in my cup.”
Her lip popped free, and she gasped. “You didn’t!”
“I did,” he admitted. “And nearly unmanned myself in the process.”
Char giggled and shifted, one leg sliding over the top of his thighs.
Heat arrowed toward his cock, and he placed his hand lightly on the small of her back, resisting the urge to grip both of her hips and seat her more firmly over him. Her breath caught at the contact . . . and truthfully, he was already hard. Again. Just like he had been all those years before.
Which she felt.
That wasn’t like before, or at least not how it had been during their first meeting. She’d felt it many times over the months that followed, but that first night, she’d lurched back, her chin lifting even as she’d curled her hand into a fist at her side. He’d seen that glimpse of pink then, made obvious by the bright fluorescent lights overhead, even though he’d been the one to lean close, to bend enough so she could reach him when she’d extended her hand.
Drawn. Bewitched.
Even then.
“I told you to take a shower,” she said, rolling her eyes at herself. “I was so upset that I’d touched you, that I’d dared crossed the line between management and player, that I said you smelled.”
He snorted. “I didn’t take it personally.”
“I did.” She made a face. “Both the attraction and the insults. Neither were professional.” White teeth nibbling into a lush bottom lip. “But I only gave into one.”
“Yup.” His lips twitched. “The insults.”
“Rude!”
“Yup,” he said. “You are.”
She gasped in outrage, those lips parting, tempting him, and Logan found he couldn’t resist any longer. Levering up as he banded his arm around her waist, he kissed her.
And she kissed him. Fuck, but she kissed him, gripping his shoulders, her fingernails sharp spikes of pleasure through the fabric of his shirt. She leaned into him, legs straddling his hips, and her pelvis came in contact with his, the heat
of her pressing tightly to his cock.
Fuck.
Heat.
Need.
Desire.
It filled every cell in his body, made red haze in on the edges of his vision, had his fingers clenching on her hips, had him parting his lips, tongue darting out to dance with hers.
Nothing was like kissing Char.
Not hoisting the Cup, not scoring a game-winning goal, not getting drafted in the first place. Not holding his nephew for the first time, or how proud his dad had been when he’d scored his first goal.
Char was everything.
“Come in the house,” she murmured when they broke apart for air. “Come to my bed. Come kiss me and hold me and touch me.” Her fingers brushed his lips, traced the outline when he might have protested. Because they’d made big progress that night, and he didn’t want to fuck it up. “And then when you’ve done that for long enough, I want you to come inside me.”
Twenty-Two
Char
She was bordering on brazen.
Which was a characteristic she considered commonplace in her business life but not so much in the bedroom.
Of course, she knew what she wanted, wasn’t afraid to ask for it.
But she really enjoyed being able to sit back and not have to be in charge of something, to give and take without considering every angle, to shut off her brain and just enjoy herself.
Like she wanted to do with Logan.
“Starlight,” he murmured, his tone beyond gentle, and she knew he was trying to be so careful with her, to not hurt her. “I don’t think—”
“That’s the point,” she said, trying to push off him then stopping and glaring when he wouldn’t let her go. “Log, that’s the point, isn’t it? Both of us have spent too long thinking and considering—me, wondering what I did wrong to make you leave me. You, worrying that we would turn out like your parents. But it’s gotten us nowhere. Except, hurt and heartbroken and apart.” She sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “I’ve had a lot of realizations tonight. I’ve realized I miss my family and hate that I’ve focused so much on barricading myself in work that I’ve lost some of our closeness. I hate that!”