by Sarina Bowen
I sag forward, redistributing my weight to my elbows so my chest isn’t crushing Hailey. “Sorry,” I gasp against her cheek. “Told you it would be fast.”
“Not complaining,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. Her nails begin drawing little circles in the center of my sweaty back.
“I’ll be ready to go again in…” Even as I withdraw, my dick twitches at the thought of another round, bringing a rueful smile to my lips. “Well, much sooner than you think.”
She laughs, and then we both grow silent for a few moments. When she speaks again, it’s with a note of wonder in her vote.
“New memories.”
“New memories,” I agree, rolling over so that I’m lying on my side with my arm slung across her flat stomach. I add, “I’m sorry I didn’t text much these last few days. Hard to when I’m on the road.”
Hailey shifts her head so we’re eye to eye. “You were working. I get it. So was I.”
I swallow my surprise. I expected some condemnation about the fact that I only texted her twice in three days—once to say hi, and another to say tired, hitting the hay. She sent several messages relating to the games I’d played, but I hadn’t responded to them. Not because I was ignoring her, but because road trips are exhausting. I can barely keep my eyes open to punch in the floor number in the hotel elevator, let alone to have a whole text convo.
“You’re not mad?” I hedge.
“Of course not.” Her brow furrows. “Do you want me to be?”
“Of course not,” I echo. Though I’m still a bit confused. If I’d gone three days without constant contact with Kara, the woman would’ve smacked me. She would’ve argued that it meant I didn’t care about her, that I wasn’t thinking about her.
And truth was, Kara would be right. There were plenty of times I wasn’t thinking about my wife. Before a game, I get so focused on hockey that it’s all my brain is capable of thinking about. Watching game film of the opposing team, prepping myself mentally, working out. The life of a professional athlete is about concentration, hard work, and determination—Kara knew what she was signing up for before she married me.
Besides, it’s not like she even wanted me around half the time. She liked making all the decisions about the kids, the house, the finances.
Maybe because she knew I’d be shit at it?
Damn, the divorce really fucked with my head. It hurt when Kara sat me down at our kitchen table and calmly slid those papers toward me. Before that day, I’d never failed at anything so…big before. Small things, sure. But marriage?
I stifle a heavy breath and gaze at Hailey’s face, her eyes still glazed from the sex. I don’t want to fail her. I might not be able to promise forever, but I think her divorce screwed her up, too. I think she needs to spend time with a man who can’t keep his hands off her, a man who can show her how fucking cool she is.
“Hey,” I say suddenly. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Research,” she answers. “We’re thinking of opening a second Fetch location, so I’m looking into possible sites.”
“You need to get it all done this weekend or can you take a break?”
“Why? What do you have in mind?”
“I’m taking the girls to the CN Tower tomorrow,” I explain, grimacing. “I might need the moral support.”
Hailey wrinkles her brow. “Moral support? But you get along great with your kids. You love them.”
“Oh, I love them,” I agree. “I’ll need the support for another reason.”
Her eyes fill with curiosity. “Oooh, tell me more.”
“Nope.” I sit up and cross my arms over my chest. Then I realize I still have my sweater on. And so does Hottie. And that makes me snicker, because we just had crazy hot sex and we both kept our shirts on?
“What’s so funny?” she demands.
“Nothing.” I bring my attention back to the topic on hand. “So you wanna come along?”
Hailey stares at me. “You’re really not going to explain the moral support remark?”
“Nope,” I say again, flashing her a cheerful smile.
“Why?” she whines.
“Because it’s embarrassing,” I answer frankly.
A slight smile tugs on the corners of her lips. “The mighty Matthew Eriksson gets embarrassed? All right. Well, this is one mystery I refuse to let go unsolved.” Her smile turns into a full-fledged grin. “I’m in.”
Sixteen
More Than a Thousand Feet
Hailey
“Stay away from the window, Junebug! I mean it!”
Oh boy. I’m witnessing the impossible. Matt Eriksson…one of the biggest, toughest hockey players in the league, the man who can slay me with one crooked smile and bring me to my knees with one raspy-voiced word…is a wimp.
Okay, he’s not a wimp. But apparently my hockey god is human. As in, a human who’s deathly afraid of heights.
“But it’s so pretty!” Matt’s daughter whines. “I wanna see!”
“Me too!” Libby pipes up, dashing up to the huge glass window to join her twin.
Matt looks like he’s about to have a coronary. His face is paler than the fluffy white clouds that we’re pretty much at eye level with. Yeah, we’re in the clouds. This tower is frickin’ tall. More than a thousand feet, if the brochure in my hands is telling the truth. And is it weird that I’ve lived in Toronto all my life and never visited its most popular tourist attraction?
“Guys, listen to this,” I say, reading from the crisp booklet. “There’s something called an Outdoor Sky Terrace one level below us.”
Matt makes a sputtering sound, his head swinging toward me in sheer betrayal. “They let you go outside? From this height! Jesus Christ! I’m calling my lawyer.”
I can’t stop a laugh. “Your lawyer?”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “To pre-emptively sue this place for all the murders they’re going to be complicit in.”
Sighing, I walk over and place a hand on his big arm. He’s wearing a gray sweater that showcases every delicious contour of his torso, and faded blue jeans that hug his ass so right that I’ve already caught several other women ogling him. But it’s hard for me to ogle when he’s clearly so upset.
“Matthew,” I say softly, and his lips twitch at my use of his full name. I stroke my fingers up his arm until they reach the underside of his chin. I firmly meet his eyes. “Breathe.”
There’s a beat. And then I hear the slightest intake of breath.
“This tower has been here for decades and it’s still standing. People fly in from all over the world to see it. The elevators carry a gazillion people to the top every day.” I sneak a peek at his girls to make sure they’re focusing on the view and not us, then caress the strong line of his jaw. “We’re perfectly safe up here. Okay?”
He exhales slowly. “Okay.”
“That a boy.” I give his cheek an exaggerated pinch. “Now come on, let’s move a little closer to the windows. Libby wants to find out if we can see your condo from up here.”
Matt crosses his arms over his chest. “You go. I’m good where I am.”
Another laugh bubbles in my throat. I manage to tamp it down, though. Truthfully, it’s a bit of a confidence booster to know that Matt is afraid of heights. It knocks him a foot or two off the pedestal I’ve put him on. Plus, it makes me feel like I’m more in control, when normally I feel so wildly out of control when I’m around him.
“Hailey, come see!” June calls. “I think that’s a doggy down there!”
I bite my lip in amusement. I’m fairly certain that whatever she’s seeing is not a doggy. From this height, she’d never be able to make out one measly dog. But I still humor the little girl, bending down beside her, squinting extra hard, and then agreeing that, yes, that teeny black dot hundreds of feet below is absolutely a dog.
“Daddy’s sweaty,” Libby whispers to me.
I glance behind us, then back at Libby’s wide gray eyes. “Seems so,” I confir
m. “It’s probably because it’s so hot in here with all these people.” I gesture to the crowd of tourists all around us. Everyone but Matt is oohing and aahing at the breathtaking view of the city.
“It’s ’cause he’s a scaredy-cat,” Libby disagrees.
A snort flies out. “Well. Even daddies can be scaredy-cats sometimes.”
June shifts her gaze from the window to study me. “You’re pretty like my mommy,” she says frankly.
Heat rises in my cheeks, while discomfort fills my belly. I don’t like the comparison to Matt’s ex-wife, especially since the former Mrs. Eriksson isn’t just pretty—she’s a bombshell. “Thank you,” I manage. “So are you. And you,” I add, smiling at June’s identical twin.
“Your nose is shiny,” Libby says in response.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about my nose ring. June decides she needs to touch it, and suddenly two chubby fingers are probing the tiny silver stud, and I don’t know whether to laugh or die of embarrassment.
“Does it hurt?” June asks curiously.
“Nope. Half the time I forget it’s there.”
“Do you have a dog?” Libby asks.
“Do you like ice cream?” June asks.
My head starts spinning as the girls fire seemingly random questions at me, but after the tenth or so inquiry, I realize they’re asking me if I like the things they like. They’re sussing me out, trying to figure out if I’m good enough to be their friend—or rather, if I’m good enough to be their father’s friend.
I answer each question honestly, which I think they appreciate. Even though Libby turns her nose up when I admit I hate gummy bears, she nods solemnly at the explanation I give—“I don’t like slimy things in my mouth.”
Matt snickers loudly at that. He’s slowly been creeping toward us, not getting too close to the windows, but close enough to eavesdrop apparently.
“That’s what she said,” he coughs into his hand.
June notices her father and squeals. “Daddy!”
“You guys have enough of this view already?” he asks us. “Because I’m hungry.”
“Liar. You’re just looking for an excuse to hide in the restaurant,” I accuse, and the twins giggle in delight.
He winks at me. “That too. But it is one o’clock, which is usually when the girls have lunch. What do you say, kidlets? Lunchtime?”
We end up in a corner booth in the family restaurant at the tower, not the revolving one that would probably put Matt in a straight jacket. As the girls babble to each other while eating chicken fingers shaped like animals, Matt slides one hand under the table and slips his fingers through mine.
“Thanks for coming along,” he murmurs.
I smile. “Thanks for inviting me.” I give his hand a teasing squeeze. “Though I think you only did that so someone could stand at the windows with your kids.”
His answering smile is wry. “I’m sorry you have to witness this. I don’t know what it is about heights, but…” He gives an exaggerated shiver. “Man, I hate ’em.”
“I like that,” I admit.
He arches a brow. “You like that I’m a total pus—wimp about heights?” He shoots a glance at his daughters to make sure they didn’t hear his almost-use of pussy.
“No, I like that you’re not invincible.” I reach for my soda and take a long sip. “It makes me feel less inclined to stammer and stutter in your presence, knowing you’re such a wimp.”
“Ha ha.” He studies my face for a moment. “You haven’t stammered and stuttered in a while, now that I think about.” A grin stretches his sexy mouth. “Could someone finally be warming up to me?”
I warmed up to you the day we met. I melted for you the second you kissed me.
I swallow the urge to voice those thoughts. I have no idea how I feel about Matt, except that I love spending time with him, and, yes, I’m definitely starting to relax around him. Jenny was right—my confidence took a hit after the divorce. But it’s slowly coming back. I feel stronger. More self-assured.
“There might be some warming,” I concede with mock reluctance. “But I’m not sure I can deal with the scared-of-heights thing.” I lean in to whisper in his ear. “Now’s probably not the time to tell you that I enjoy skydiving, right?”
He blanches. “Oh God. Please tell me you’re lying.”
“Afraid not. I try to get a dive in a couple times a year if I can. Biggest thrill ever.”
“You’re dead to me,” he deadpans.
I burst out laughing, then lift my hand from under the table and pat his broad shoulder. “It’s okay. I’d never force you to skydive with me. We all have our stuff.”
We’re interrupted when Libby reaches over to persistently tug at Matt’s sleeve. “Daddy. I have to potty.”
“Ah. Okay. Let’s take care of that, shall we?”
He starts to push his chair back, but I get up instead. “I can take her,” I offer. “Saves you an awkward trip to the men’s.”
He looks grateful. “Thanks, Hott—Hailey,” he corrects himself.
“Of course.” I hold out my hand to the little girl. “You ready, Eddie?”
She gives a high-pitched laugh. “I’m not Eddie!! I’m Libby!!”
“She’s Libby!” June chimes in.
“I know, I’m just teasing you.” I ruffle Libby’s silky-soft hair and then lead her away from the table. Glancing back, I see Matt sliding closer to June and whispering something that makes her giggle. His rugged smile as he talks to his little girl makes my heart flip over in my chest.
In the ladies’ room I make sure that Libby washes her hands after she comes out of the stall. When she shuts off the water, I’m ready with a paper towel, which she grabs and swipes across her little hands.
An elderly woman smiles at me just as Libby hands back her used towel. “Your daughter is gorgeous,” she says, a smile on her wrinkled face.
The compliment catches me completely off guard. My eyes drop to Libby’s pale eyes as I try to see what the woman saw. It isn’t often since my divorce that I allow myself to think about having a family of my own. That way lies the abyss. So I take a breath and try to compose a polite explanation. But before I can form the words, “I’m just a family friend,” Libby darts toward the ladies’ room door. And since I don’t want to lose sight of Matt’s daughter in the touristy melee, I only get out “thank you” before I chase after her.
After the tower trip, we spend another hour walking past all the department store windows that have been specially decorated for the Christmas holiday. The girls squeal over the glitzy displays, and Matt slips his hand into mine.
Heaven.
So when he asks me to come upstairs with them and stay for an early dinner, I say yes even though I should say no.
“Can I help?” I ask when he goes into the kitchen.
“Nope!” he says cheerfully. There’s a slow cooker on his countertop, and I watch him pick up an oven mitt to lift the lid. “It’s already done.”
After petting Rufus hello, I peek into the pot. “Chili? It smells great.”
“My mother’s recipe,” he says, giving it a stir. “And also gluten free.” He takes a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it and smooths it onto the counter. “Matthew—” it begins. Many paragraphs follow in a small font. His finger skims down the page until he reaches a bright yellow section called DISALLOWED FOODS. “Yay. Rice is still legal. I’ll make some rice on the side.”
“It’s still…what?”
He makes a face. “Kara has a hundred rules, and I try to break as few as possible.”
“This letter is, like, her permanent instruction manual?”
He laughs, but the sound is bitter. “That’s just for today. I get a new, updated manual on every visit. She didn’t used to print them out and highlight passages, though. So that’s new.”
I literally bite my tongue to keep from making a comment. Bashing the ex-wife is not something I want to do. But I just spent se
veral hours with Matt and his kids, and he made it all look easy.
After he walks the dog for a few minutes, the girls disappear into their room with Rufus, and I sit at a counter stool with a beer, watching my hot man make rice. My big contribution to this meal is to put napkins and silverware on his table and pour milk into two plastic cups with handles.
“Half full,” he cautions. “There are frequent spills.”
“Gotcha.”
“Rufus loves it when the girls are here.”
Sure enough, the dog wags his tail happily from the floor between their two chairs when we all sit down later, waiting for errant grains of rice or whatever else falls from the sky.
Matt’s kickass chili is delicious and makes me feel embarrassed to have served him store-bought lasagna. At least the dessert he takes out of the cupboard is store-bought.
“YAY, cookies!” one of his daughters yells. “Mommy will be mad.”
“No she won’t,” he says quickly. “They’re organic and low sugar.”
“Really?” I whisper as he opens the package beside me. They’re coconut macaroons dipped in dark chocolate, and they look delicious.
He gives me a guilty shrug and I swallow a laugh. “They’re gluten free, though,” he whispers back. “You can’t have everything.”
He’s right. You can’t. I’ve just spent the past couple of hours trying not to wonder how different my life might be if I’d married someone who wanted to stay married and have kids. Children had always been on Jackson’s and my to-do list. Or at least I’d thought they were. But since I’m not even thirty, it was never an urgent matter. And we had a growing business to run.
Matt disappears for a little while to get his girls changed into PJs. They’ll do anything to avoid brushing their teeth, it seems. A game of tag breaks out, and then Libby tries to ride Rufus like a horse. His reaction is to yawn and sink down onto the floor.
Then there’s a story book on the couch, followed by pleas for more.
“That’s all,” he says, snapping the book shut. “Bedtime was two minutes and seven seconds ago.” It sounds like a faintly sarcastic echo of his ex, and when I smirk, I get a sexy wink from him. “Say goodnight to Hailey.”