I had been out with Tacker driving neighborhoods and lonely dirt roads during the entire time Charlie was missing. The stress of what we might have found was horrendous. We barely said a word to each other the entire time, both dreading like hell we’d find something unimaginable. When Bishop sent a message Charlie had been found to the team group text, I wanted to weep with relief. Had I not been driving at the time, I would have hugged the shit out of Tacker, but I was at least satisfied he was grinning the entire time I drove him home after hearing the good news.
Of course, I kept up my unrelenting plan to draw him into the fold. I invited him to come over for breakfast on Saturday, figuring Regan and Willow could work on him, too.
He declined.
I asked if he was going to come to the rookie party on Saturday night, which would be a great time for him to reintegrate with the team. Granted, he’s suspended and technically not part of the team, but the party is not a team-sanctioned event. It happens every year on every professional team, but the management turns a blind eye to the utter hedonism of the event.
It’s when the rookies of each team throw a party for the veterans, and the rookies have to bear the expense and the brunt of anything bad that happens. It’s usually held at an expensive restaurant, and nothing is off limits to the veterans. That means they can order every damn item on the menu for themselves and have just a tiny bite of each thing, and drink as much alcohol as they want. And if the after-party involves women of a certain ilk, well, that expense is borne by the rookies, too. I’ve heard of some tabs running over a hundred thousand dollars when it’s all said and done, but that’s not going to happen amongst our team. It’s not that we won’t go out and have a wild and crazy time. We’ll absolutely order the most expensive steak and supreme liquor, but we’re too close to the playoffs to screw with the magical mojo we’ve got going on, so the veterans are not going to try to break the rookies. It’s not worth it for one evening of fun.
Regardless, Tacker said he wasn’t interested and turned down my invitation twice. It was time to pull out the big guns and have Erik and Blue invite Tacker on an outing with them and Blue’s brother, Billy. Or have Legend ask Tacker to come over to help with Charlie while Legend visits Pepper in the hospital. I doubt he’d say no to those requests.
After dropping Tacker off, I’d gone to the arena and worked out, then we actually had a short skate practice that wasn’t mandatory, but I wanted the distraction. Apparently, everyone else had, too. Only Legend was absent, but that was understandable. The informal practice had been followed by a short meeting where Coach Perron praised us for coming together as a team today, making sure we remembered we were so much more than just a bunch of talented skaters.
It was totally inspiring.
So yeah, we ended on a good note, but my shoulders are still tight with tension that probably has everything to do with Regan. I’d gotten just a few minutes to bare my soul to Bishop today about my predicament before it all went by the wayside. Rightly so, my focus was on Charlie, Pepper, and Legend—and Tacker to some degree—and I had not had much time to reflect on what he’d told me.
His advice was way too simple.
Talk to her.
Yeah, fucking fat chance of that. That means discussing feelings and emotions and other shit I’d rather stay away from. I’ve dealt with enough of that crap between Lance dying and finding out Regan could die without this treatment.
I think I’ll just leave things alone.
Surely I’ll stop obsessing about her eventually.
After exiting my car and locking it, I trudge up the steps with my workout bag over my shoulder. I’d been able to grab a quick shower at the arena after our skate, but I’m dying for a longer, hotter one to help give my shoulders and neck tension some relief.
The key slides easily in the lock. When I let myself into my townhome, I’m assailed by the most amazing aroma. I inhale deeply, eyes closed, and let out an appreciative sigh.
“Pot roast, carrots, and potatoes.” Regan’s voice floats toward me, and I open my eyes to see her standing in between the open-plan living room and kitchen. “I called your mom, and she walked me through how to make it. I remember it being your favorite growing up.”
Christ, the squeezing in my chest rattles me a bit, knowing my body is reacting to a simple kindness a woman has done for me.
No, not any woman.
Regan. My wife—who’s not really my wife—after I’ve had a really tiring day.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she continues, giving me an uncertain smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d had time to eat.”
“I haven’t,” I say, dropping my workout bag in the foyer and placing my keys on the small round table there. The dry protein bar I had after the team skate didn’t count.
“Well, sit down,” she instructs, pointing to the breakfast nook table before turning into the kitchen. “I’ll make you a plate.”
It’s at this point I should insist she doesn’t have to—that I’m clearly capable of serving myself. But I don’t. Instead, I sit at the table and let someone who made my favorite meal because she was concerned for me serve me as well. For these next however many moments, I’m going to pretend I have a doting wife because, right now, it feels too good to let it go.
I watch Regan carefully as she puts my meal together. There’s a large pan on the top of the stove from which she serves up slices of roast beef along with caramelized carrots and potatoes onto a plate. My eyes drop to her shapely ass molded into a pair of faded jeans, sliding down to her bare feet. I’m thoroughly enjoying not only this purely male fantasy of an awesome home-cooked meal, but also of the fact I’ve got a hot-as-hell wife who has done so for me.
In conventional marriages, I’m wondering how appropriate it would be for the husband—that would be me—to walk up behind his gorgeous wife—that would be Regan—and take the plate from her hand.
Set it to the side.
Turn her in his arms and kiss the ever-loving hell out of her.
A kiss that would turn deep and sexual, which would lead to clothes coming off and a quick hard fuck with her bent over the kitchen table.
“Here you go,” Regan chirps as she sets the plate in front of me. I blink, having been lost in the fantasy, hoping to God she can’t see I’ve got a hard-on now. “What do you want to drink?”
“Um… water is fine,” I mutter, diverting my eyes to my food because no telling what expression I have on my face right now.
Regan brings me a water, fixes herself a plate, then sits on the opposite side of the table. We stare at each other a moment before she levels another overly bright smile at me. “Well, dig in.”
Food. Right.
When I put the knife to the pot roast, it falls apart, shredding with the slightest bit of contact. The steaming aroma hits my nose again, and I have a vivid flashback of mine and Regan’s families sitting down to this same exact meal for my birthday one year. I was about fourteen or fifteen, somewhere around there. My parents’ dining table only had seating for eight. There were nine of us in total, so we just pulled a kitchen chair in and Regan squeezed into the corner of the table since she was the smallest.
It’s a good memory, but it fades away as I take my first bite of the pot roast. It’s perfectly seasoned and tastes exactly like my mom’s. I’m touched Regan went to the trouble. She could have easily Googled a recipe, but she went the extra step to call up my mother, who I’m sure was all too thrilled to help her out.
“This is amazing, Regan,” I say as I use the edge of my fork to split a piece of potato in half. “Thank you.”
Shrugging, she spears a carrot. “It gave me something to do. I’m bored.”
“You’ll find something soon, I’m sure,” I reply. She’s used this week to put in applications to several medical facilities in the area. She’s being up front about starting school in the fall, so she’ll get passed up by companies needing committed, full-time nurses. “Were you able to set up your next
treatment?”
“I’ve got an appointment with a case manager on Monday.”
“And then you’ll get your treatment?”
Another shrug while she pushes her food around on her plate. “Maybe. She said it could take some time to get through the approval process since I’m a new insurance subscriber.”
“How much time?” I ask, putting my fork down.
“A few weeks to a month.”
“Oh, hell no,” I exclaim, shaking my head. “You can’t wait that long.”
“Yeah, well… I’m sure the insurance company will jump on it faster since you say so,” Regan replies dryly.
“I’m coming to your appointment on Monday,” I say as I pick up my fork. “What time is it?”
“Nine,” she replies, eyes wide with surprise. “But you don’t need to. It’s just to go over forms and my history. Stuff like that.”
“I’m going.” My tone makes it clear I won’t be dissuaded. “I’m not going to let them sweep you under the rug. You’re getting your treatment next week.”
Regan’s mouth falls slightly open in shock. She wants to argue—I can see it in her eyes—but then she drops her gaze to her plate. Spearing another carrot, she pastes a resigned smile on her face. “How are Pepper and Charlie?” she asks.
I’d called Regan this morning on my way over to pick up Tacker at his place. Explained about everything that had been going on and told her I’d be out searching. She wanted to come and help, but I put her off, mainly because she’d be a distraction. I also wanted some alone time with Tacker to try to get him to open up on his own.
I’d called her once again when Pepper came out of surgery, then for a third time when Charlie had been rescued. She knows they’re both good, so she’s just trying to make conversation by steering us away from prior events.
But that’s fine by me. I’m not going to argue with her about whether I should come to her appointment on Monday. Regardless of the fact I’m her husband, I’m the man her brother trusted most in the world to look after her, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
CHAPTER 13
Regan
The knock at the front door has me springing from the couch where I’d been settled in with a glass of wine. I fling it open, then take in all that is Willow Monahan as she stands at the threshold.
Despite looking travel weary, she is still one of the most gorgeous women I know. She looks just like her siblings, Dax and Meredith, but with a slightly more exotic tilt to her eyes. It makes her appear a tad foreign with her dark hair, golden-brown eyes, and sun-kissed skin, like she’s the princess of some desert sheik.
Her eyes appraise me critically. It’s the first time she’s seen me since Lance died. She’d been on the other side of the world under some perilous conditions, and she hadn’t been able to make it back for the funeral.
“I’m good,” I say, answering the unwritten question in Willow’s eyes that wonders how I’m dealing with my brother’s unexpected death. “I promise.”
The concern washes away, although it’s really just tucked down deep so I can’t see it, and she breezes in the door. Willow pulls an olive-green canvas duffel on wheels behind her, which I’m sure carries all of her clothing and travel necessities. Her precious camera and lenses are in the battered leather backpack resting easily on her shoulders. With her khaki cargo pants, olive-green tank top, and heavily pocketed tan vest, she looks every inch a traveling photo journalist. Almost a cliché.
What I don’t see under all that clothing are the physical scars from being hit by grenade shrapnel in Syria last year. She was so proud of her injuries, sending me not only photos of the wounds but also of a tiny plastic jar that held the metal shards that had been pulled from her body. It was something she felt safe in showing me, but I was positive she never would have showed her parents or siblings, because they already have a modest amount of fear over her job. I do, too, of course, but she also knows she can be a bit freer with the sister who’s not actually blood, and more of a close friend and confident.
“I need wine, a hot shower, and pizza, but not necessarily in that order,” Willow announces as she releases the duffel handle and shrugs her backpack off, gently setting it next to the entertainment unit in the living room. “Then we can turn on the hockey game to cheer Dax on.”
“Wine first,” I say with authority as I walk into the kitchen to pour her a glass from the bottle I’d recently opened. “And I’ve already ordered the pizza. It should be here soon.”
“Now you’re talking,” she replies with a grin, plopping into a chair at the kitchen table.
I top off my drink and take the glasses to the table, pulling a chair out opposite of Willow. I last saw her two years ago at Christmas when she happened to be home visiting her parents for the holidays. Lance and I had made a trip to visit the Monahans. Our time there had been short, my diagnosis with the PNH new. We chose to keep it between ourselves, a decision Lance sort of followed my cue on.
Now as I study Willow, I’m wondering why we kept it a secret. Technically, it had been so we wouldn’t throw a pall over the holidays. I also hadn’t wanted Linda and Calvin to worry about me. But I also think it was partly because Lance and I had bonded so tightly after our parents died that we seemed like an unstoppable unit together. He’d promised he would take care of me when we became orphaned, and he’d kept his word. He’d been all I really needed.
And now he was gone, and I’m still keeping secrets. Willow takes a sip of her wine, sighs, then smiles, not knowing I have a deadly disease or I’m married to her brother.
Shit… we’re actually related now. Sisters by marriage… and she has no clue.
A wave of guilt courses through me, but it’s quickly extinguished when Willow sets her glass on the table, making a clucking noise. “Christ, Regan… you look like shit. Are you sick?”
My eyes round with wonder. How in the hell could she know about my PNH just by looking at me? But then I remember I had a rough morning. I woke up from a sound night’s sleep utterly fatigued with dark circles under my eyes. It happens sometimes—luckily, it’s infrequent—and I hadn’t thought twice about it. I barreled forward with my day, doing some light cleaning and laundry before attending a job interview for a part-time position at a local pediatrics office.
Sidestepping her question, I turn the tables. “Look who’s talking. You’re a total travel rat, and you smell, too.”
Willow laughs, her bright white teeth flashing as she inclines her head in a touché moment. But then her face sobers, and she asks, “Seriously… how are you doing with everything?”
She means with Lance dying as she has no clue about the other upheavals in my life. Because I am not about to tell her I’m married to her brother, I stick to the limited scope of her inquiry so I don’t have to lie. “It’s tough. I reach for my phone at least ten times a day to call or text him. I turn the TV to sports the day after a Vipers game to see the highlight reel so I can get a glimpse of my brother. I’m not exactly sure when he’ll stop being my go-to thought of the day, but for now… it’s just tough.”
Willow’s eyes mist up. “And still no leads on who did it?”
My brother had been mugged. He’d also been stabbed, possibly for fighting and refusing to give up his wallet. The cops aren’t really sure, but the case is cold and unsolved. Not having justice meted out to his killer is another source of pain.
I shake my head. “It appears to be a random incident, a classic mugging gone wrong. His wallet and watch were missing. His shirt was ripped, so they think there was a struggle. No witnesses. No other leads.”
“Fuck,” she mutters as she stares glumly into her wineglass before she focuses back on me. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m dealing,” I assure her. “And Dax has been great by letting me stay here.”
“Yeah,” she drawls. “Not sure I saw that one coming. I mean… Dax isn’t the most dependable—”
“But he is,” I rush to defend him
.
Chuckling, Willow holds her hands up. “Let me finish there, sassy pants. I merely meant he’s not the first person to notice there’s a problem. He’s just so damn busy and always traveling. But once he does see something, he’s the first to act.”
“He caught me at a low point in New York,” I admit, thinking about how I’d dissolved into tears in his arms when he sort of strong-armed me into telling him all my woes. “And you’re right… he definitely springs into action. He didn’t give me much of a choice but to come here with him.”
“He’s a caveman,” Willow commiserates. “But I think it’s good for you. You shouldn’t be alone, and there’s nothing our family wouldn’t do for you. Especially Dax.”
Including marriage, I think, but then decide to change the subject. “What about you? I can’t even keep track of your travels anymore.”
Willow’s eyes light up, a clear indication she’s still madly in love with her job. “I’m getting ready to head to Kosovo. It’s been twenty years since the war, and I got a contract to take photos of some of the survivors with updates on what they’re doing now. The only downside is the reporter assigned is a real douche. Thinks he knows everything and will try to control my shots, but still… it’s going to be an epic news piece.”
“Wow,” is all I can say because I’m not even sure where Kosovo is or what really happened there. I give a small shake of my head in awe. “You’re such an adventurer. Don’t you ever get nervous about all the places you travel to, not to mention the ones that are actual war zones?”
“Not really,” Willow says with a shrug. “I mean… if I think about it too much, then I’m sure I’d have some moments, but I just try to focus on the job and trust the people around me to keep me safe.”
Tables are turned again as we try to get updated. Willow asks, “Are you still dating that guy—what was his name—Pete? Pablo?”
“Paul,” I supply with a laugh. “And no. That fizzled.”
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