by S. M. West
Grabbing my chin, he bends to meet my mouth. Our lips melt together as one and our bodies tighten and vibrate, ready for release. My fingers slide along his scalp, gripping the short, damp strands, and I love the way his hair feels between my fingers. So soft. In such sharp contrast to the violent sensations coursing through my body.
His hand slides up from my hip to palm one heavy, swollen breast, gently squeezing, and my nipples harden and ache. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, teeth and tongue tugging at the hot, plump flesh with a need only release can bring. A noise—so like a plea—slips from my mouth and down his throat where his desire mingles with mine. We’re on the brink. My hands and knees shake, and his hands increase their pressure, giving so much pleasure as we splinter apart, our moans filling the foggy bathroom.
The days rush by in a flurry and while a cliché, we’re in our own little bubble at the cottage, but returning to reality, and the city, is fast approaching. Paige comes this weekend and afterward, we all go back to Toronto. My parents’ anniversary party is only a couple of weeks away and I want to help.
Besides, it’s time to get back to reality. Our time together has been amazing, almost surreal, but I’m playing Russian roulette with my heart. It’s only a matter of time before I lose. To complicate things further, Drew has decided not to go back to work until the new year.
Brock has also upped his texts and calls, and like my lawyer, Drew, and Riggs have advised me, I no longer respond. And if for whatever reason I need to respond, it’s only to remind him that everything is to go through our lawyers.
Like his P.I., whom he still has on retainer, and I know this because Brock has told me so—he knows I’m still at the cottage with Drew—I keep tabs on Brock and the team through the internet. I want to be informed and as it is, he hasn’t been having such a great season, something he’s also quick to mention is my fault.
The Rockets are playing this evening and for one small second I toyed with the idea of watching the game. I’m going to be on my own at the cottage tonight and won’t have to hear Drew’s disapproving comments if I do watch the game. Although I don’t think I will. Reading the highlights online is one thing, but as much as I love football, watching my soon-to-be ex-husband isn’t entertaining.
Drew’s playing hockey tonight with some local guys who live year-round in Muskoka. We ran into them a week or so ago, and they invited him. At first, he hesitated, but I encouraged him, knowing time apart is good for us. He’s already gone to a couple games and I’m good with having some time alone. Paige arrives tomorrow and then there will be hardly any alone time until well after the holidays, I’m sure.
Drew places the last of his gear in his duffel, but he’s stalling.
“Go.” I push playfully at his shoulder. “Blow off some steam. I’m going to practice parkour while you’re gone.”
I’m joking. Drew’s been teaching me the basics and as much as I want to learn more, I suck at it. Besides that, this house isn’t the right place for that kind of physical activity. I could practice outside but I’m not going to do it alone in the dark.
“No, you’re not.” His arms wrap around my lower back.
“No, I’m not. What a disaster that would be.” I laugh. “Anyway, you don’t have to look after me.”
“But I want to.” His voice is a soft rumble through my body, and I quiver in all my secret places. “I like spending my time with you.”
I purse my lips, debating if I should argue with him about not being his responsibility, but I don’t have the heart to.
“You better get going.”
“What are you going to do?” His lips lightly graze the tip of my nose.
“I’ll read for a bit and then bed. I’ll most probably be asleep when you get home.”
“Is that your way of telling me not to wake you?” His sexy smile causes me to melt further into his embrace.
“No. Wake me.”
We kiss and I shoo him out the door before I change my mind and haul him upstairs.
Hours later and I’m deep into the latest Alafair Burke book when a knock at the front door pulls me from the psychological thriller. My first instinct is to ignore it. I’m not expecting anyone, and Drew has a key, but I put down the book, checking my phone to make sure it’s got juice just in case. Yeah, I was engrossed in the book and now my mind is jumping to killers in the night.
My phone buzzes and a small smile slides across my face when I see Riggs’s text. He’s at the door and a million questions come to mind. The Rockets are in Kansas City, why isn’t he with them?
“Hi!” I open my arms and we hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Just had to see you.” He sounds as tired as he looks, even with his flirty grin.
“Come in. What’s wrong?” Tension rolls off him.
As he enters, I catch sight of a pickup truck in the driveway. “My dad’s sick. Palliative care. It’s only a matter of time.” His hand rakes through his salt and pepper hair.
“Oh, Riggs. I’m so sorry.” His dad has been battling cancer for some time now and he’s been telling me bits and pieces via text but I had no clue it was this bad.
“Do you want something to drink?”
We settle in the family room and he slumps onto the couch and shuts his eyes.
“You have any scotch or brandy? It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah, I think there’s brandy. One second.”
I fix us drinks and leave him be. He’s here to see his dying father and yet, he makes a pitstop to see me? Seems strange. We text regularly and I gave him the cottage address in case of anything, but he never told me he was coming.
“Here you go.” I hand him a glass and sit beside him with my own. “Did Rachel ask you to come?”
He was my main go-between with my lawyer, Rachel Danvers, in the beginning, and I’ve included him in all that’s been involved with getting a divorce.
“No, not really. Brock’s livid about the divorce but between Matt, some of the guys, and me, he’s coming around. You bruised his ego.”
I snort and roll my eyes. Of course this is about his ego.
“Is he bothering you?” Riggs asks pointedly.
I shrug, quirking my brow. “This is Brock, of course he’s still texting and calling. One minute he’s sweet, almost begging me to take him back, and when I ignore him or refuse, then he threatens me.”
If it wasn’t for the football season, Brock would be even more of a nuisance, or more like a menace. This is why I waited until now to leave him.
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
“Riggs, you’ve done enough. You don’t need to fight my battles.”
“Okay, but you tell me if you need me to say anything.” I nod and he continues, “If he hasn’t already, he’s going to tell you to get your things out of the house pronto.”
“Okay. Do you think I could wait a few weeks?”
I’d planned to go to LA after my parents’ party to do just that and be back in time for Christmas. There isn’t much I want, and Mrs. Clyde will help. So will Finn. Every time my brother texts me, he reminds me that he’s going with me no matter what.
“I’ll talk to him and get him to agree to it. He’s busy with the season, anyway, although he’s struggling. But I don’t see how a couple more weeks will make that much of a difference.”
“Other than he’ll sit on signing the papers until I get my stuff out.”
“True, but Rachel will let you know the minute she receives the signed papers.”
Once that’s done, it’s about six months until our divorce is final. I sigh, impatient to have it over even if that is the best-case scenario. Brock could still throw a wrench into this and contest the terms of the divorce. It’s all very standard and I’m not asking for anything I didn’t come into the marriage with.
California is a no-fault state, meaning his infidelity doesn’t come into play. I filed based on irreconcilable differences. But even still, he could drag this out for
as long as he wants and that’s another reason to get my ass to LA and pack up my stuff. I don’t want to give him cause to sit on the papers.
“Are your brothers or Drew going with you? Don’t go alone and make sure he’s got an away game.” He squeezes my hand. “If I can, I’ll try to be there.”
“You’re going to have your hands full with your father. Don’t worry. I won’t be alone; my brothers are coming with me. And you need to focus on family and then work. When you go back, where the team goes, you go.”
“Good. Now, I also came for another reason. Do you want an update on the job hunt?” he asks solemnly, and suddenly I’m jittery.
Along with asking Riggs for help with my divorce, we talked about finding me a job. Of course it couldn’t be in California, not with the NFL, and it was too risky for me to make any calls when Brock hadn’t been served any papers yet.
We started with six teams that were possibilities. Three we knew for sure were, or would be soon, looking for a physical therapist, and three were on rumor. He did all the leg work and he’s been deliberately evasive whenever I ask for updates.
“Of course I do.” My throat is parched.
With one final gulp of his brandy, he turns to me. “Both the Fury and North are interested. They want you to interview.”
23
Pippa
My eyes widen and my heart races. All this time, I was thinking he was here with bad news, as if his father dying wasn’t bad enough. But Mason Riggs being Mason Riggs, even when he’s dealing with his own crisis, he makes time to bring me good news.
“Oh! That’s awesome.” I hook my arms around his neck and squeal.
“What’s awesome?” Drew casually saunters into the room with his duffel slung over his shoulder.
His hair is still wet from his shower. Clean and undeniably sexy. When he spots my guest, he halts and his eyes find mine. Questions swirl in the depths of his green gaze.
“Drew, this is Mason Riggs, and Riggs, this is Drew Hayes.”
“Nice to meet you. I feel like I already know you.” Drew extends his hand.
“You too.” They shake hands.
“So what’s awesome?” Drew asks.
For a moment, I’m tempted to ignore the question. We haven’t talked about my plans after Brock, and I can’t explain why I’m hesitant other than I don’t want Drew to think he has a say in my future.
“Riggs has been helping me look for a job. He just told me that two teams are interested.”
“Wow, that’s great.” Drew places his hands on his hips. “With the NFL?” Worry mars his forehead.
“Well, one is; the other is the NBA.”
“NBA’s in Toronto,” Riggs adds, and I shoot him a look that would make an MMA fighter cower.
The mention of our hometown eases Drew’s furrowed brow. “Toronto would be great.” His arm slips around my shoulder and he pulls me into his side.
“I’ve always wanted to work in New York City,” I counter, stepping away from him.
The New York Fury are a long shot; heck, so is the North, and truthfully, I don’t have a preference. I just want to go back to a job I love. But Drew’s unintentional nudge toward the Toronto North has me seriously contemplating going south to NYC. Even though working and living in a city I call home, with my friends and family there, would be amazing.
“I can’t begin to thank you for this.” I hug Riggs again as my chest swells and warms with hope.
“Don’t be silly. Either team would be lucky to have you and I’d do anything for you.” He kisses my forehead.
The harsh sound of Drew clearing his throat causes me to jolt and I peer at him over my shoulder, taking in his dark and brooding expression at the sight of Riggs holding me.
“I better get going.” Riggs interrupts our staring contest.
“Hey, uh,” Drew says, coming closer. “I want to thank you for reaching out to my sister. Paige.”
Riggs nods and even though I’m not wild about others taking my business into their own hands, gratitude is all I feel.
The men say their goodbyes and I walk Riggs out. He promises to keep me apprised of his father’s health and I thank him again. When I return to the living room, Drew’s unpacking his hockey bag and hanging damp clothes over the furniture. It smells funky in here and while I want to protest, I have no right. This is his home.
“So you guys are close, eh?” Drew pulls his hockey jersey from his duffel onto the floor, fanning it out.
I arch a brow, wrinkling my nose at the musky eau de man aroma in the air. It’s not a bad smell really. It is Drew after all, but it’s more than sweat from his latest game. It’s the mustiness of the bag and locker room mingling with a few games’ worth of perspiration.
“Yes.” I pinch a damp sock from the back of the chair and hold it up between us. “It smells like a locker room in here. You do know you have a laundry room? You should hang this stuff in there.”
He shrugs with a lopsided grin. “Yeah, but I’m almost done, and besides, they dry quicker out here.” His socks now rest side by side on the back of a dining room chair.
“Or here’s a crazy idea, why don’t you throw them in the wash? They smell like they could use a good cleaning.”
“Not a chance.” He points a finger at me, smiling. “I’m not washing these yet. We’re on a roll.”
“Sheesh, you guys and your superstitions. You know you’re not in the NHL, right? This is for recreation.”
“Woman, stop. Now you’re just hurting my feelings.” His hand clutches his heart in mock pain. “Rec or not, it’s the game. We’re on a winning streak and nothing is going to mess with that.”
“Whatev—”
“Shit,” he hisses with a sharp intake of breath and drops a skate back into his duffel bag.
“Ouch.” I see blood beading on the pad of his forefinger. “What happened?”
He puts his fingers in his mouth and crouches down to peer into his bag. “Looks like the skate guard came off. I must’ve sliced my finger on the blade. The cut isn’t deep, it should be fine.”
For good measure, his finger goes into his mouth again and he zips up the bag.
“Let me see.” It’s a small cut and the bleeding has slowed. “It isn’t bad, but you should put more pressure on it, and a band aid.”
“Can’t.” His nonchalant response causes my puzzled expression. “I don’t have a Band-Aid. It’s no biggie, it’ll be fine.”
“I have some. Let me get you one.”
“No, if you insist, let me get them. Where are they?” He’s already halfway to the stairs, not giving me a chance.
“In the bathroom. I’ve got a black bag on the counter.”
“Gotcha.” He’s already out of sight.
Drew takes longer than expected and by the time he returns, I’ve cleared away his bag and the brandy glasses—they’re washed and back in the cupboard. He stumbles into the room as if tripping over his feet and in a daze. His troubled expression and the fact that he only has eyes for me gives me pause.
His finger is wrapped in a band aid and in his other hand, he’s holding out a small box as if wanting me to take it. At first I don’t recognize the box and am at a loss for what’s going on until he takes a few more steps and I get a closer look. My stomach plummets to my toes, wondering how on earth he found it.
“Are you—?” he falters, glancing to the box and then to me.
The box was in my toiletries bag and he must have come across it when looking for a band aid. I’d forgotten that I’d hidden in it there weeks ago now, knowing Brock would never look in a bag I only use when we travel.
“Are you pregnant?” He waves the kit in the air and his hard question cuts sharply through my swirling thoughts.
“I, um, Drew.” The words won’t seem to form in my mind, let alone on my tongue.
“Is it mine?” I swear there’s a hopeful lilt to his tone and my stomach dives.
Oh god, he thinks it could be his. I sup
pose the timing could add up, but if that was hope in his question, why? He can’t possibly want a child with me when we aren’t even together. It would be awkward and painful for us both, let alone what that could mean for our child. So, am I the one wishing I hear hope in his voice?
No, this isn’t good.
“Pip, answer me.” His gaze is imploring before he goes back to inspecting the box closely, flipping it over and over.
Our arrangement, whatever this is, needs to stop. I’m already too invested and didn’t even realize it. But why am I surprised? I was only kidding myself to think I could keep my feelings in check when it comes to Drew Hayes.
“It can’t be mine,” he says, dejected. “There isn’t any French on the box. You got this in the States. Is it Brock’s?”
“I’m not pregnant,” I rush to say. His brows draw down skeptically and he glances to the stupid kit again. “I thought I was. Pregnant, that is. A while ago—about a week before you came to LA. But I’m not.”
I don’t elaborate and tell him how anxious I was when I realized I was late. And how I spent a full day sick to my stomach, praying and hoping my period would come. I was in denial. Not willing to face the possibility that I might be carrying Brock’s child, especially when I was contemplating leaving him. The thought of getting a pregnancy test scared the hell out of me and made the possibility all the more real.
“Thank fuck.” He bites his bottom lip and winces. “Shit, Pip, I didn’t mean it like that. I’d have been there for you and loved the baby like my own, it’d just mean another complication with Brock.”
There are so many things about what he’s saying that it causes my head to spin and I hold out my hands to stop him. I can’t take any more. I collapse onto the sofa and concern ghosts his features.
“I was relieved, too, when I found out it was a false alarm.” Guilt still sits heavy in my stomach.
I want children and hope to have my own someday, but the thought of sharing a child with Brock is more a nightmare than anything else. And I hate feeling that way about a child, even if hypothetical.