“Tell me what? You’re still playing for the Blue Ox, right?”
“For now.”
“You up for a new contract?”
Max shook his head. “Three years left. And I’m praying I can play all three.”
“You’re at the top of your game, Max. You’re the last person I’d feel pity for, trust me.” He gave a harsh laugh that seemed to echo against the silence in the room. Jace looked down, his jaw tight.
“What am I missing here?”
“I’m going to die, Owen. Sooner rather than later.”
Owen froze, examining Max’s face for the joke, the Just pulling your leg, bro. His voice fell. “What are you talking about?”
“I have the gene for Huntington’s disease. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but my brother is showing symptoms and I figure I have about six, maybe seven years before I start getting shaky, needing help walking. And then it’s a long, downhill slide toward . . .” He looked at his hands. “I know I shouldn’t have married your sister, but . . . I guess I’m weaker than I thought. I need her.”
Oh. Owen felt the air empty from the room. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. But we all have our handicaps. You made yours look pretty boss.”
Owen reached up, touched the eye patch. “Grace never said anything.”
“Grace is living in the now, hoping I never get sick. We’ll just keep it that way, okay?”
The now. Talk about not wanting to look ahead. Owen might have decimated the future before him, but at least he still had one, even if he didn’t exactly know what it would look like.
“I’m getting some of those cookies Grace and the girls were making today,” Max said abruptly. “If I’m relegated to sleeping on a bunk bed tonight, I’m going to need cookies. By the way, I call dibs on the bottom.”
“Oh, right, like I’d even fit on the top bunk? Not a chance, pal. I’m pulling rank,” Jace said.
Max rolled his eyes. He turned to Owen. “Maybe you should sleep in the basement, let me and Grace have the den, and Jace and Eden have the boys’ room.”
“What, so she can sleep on the top bunk? No, we’ll be fine here for the weekend,” Jace said. “We’re not here for . . . We’re here to support Casper.”
Max grumbled something and was getting up when he stopped, eyes on the door. “Oh, we’re in trouble now,” he said. “Are we being too loud?”
Grace came into the room, looking pretty, her blonde hair up. She put her arms around Max’s neck. “Way too loud,” she said and kissed him.
Owen averted his eyes, glancing at Jace, only to see Eden slide onto his lap, her arm around him.
“What’s going on?” Jace said.
“I want to take a walk,” Eden said.
Jace leaned around her to pick up the remote. “We have twelve minutes before the next period.”
Owen smiled at that. It was always all about hockey with Jace.
Then Scotty entered the room, wearing her jeans rolled up and a pink T-shirt. She sat on the ottoman. “What’s the score?”
Score? Words fled as he took in her long neck, her dark hair dripping down, thick and full, from a messy tangle at the back of her head. Her lips glistened as she smiled gently in his direction. Her eyes—something about them could pin him to the sofa.
He couldn’t breathe.
She raised an eyebrow as if expecting something, and shoot, if she wasn’t completely annihilating his resolve to follow her rules. Those stupid rules that held him hostage and kept him from doing something ridiculously impulsive like kicking Jace and Max from the room and pulling her into his arms.
He turned to the television. Just don’t look at her. “The Wild are up, two to one. Uh, we netted a power-play goal in the first period, and then Parise got a wrist shot in just inside the left post, but Arizona came back with a quick goal. We’re not getting the rebounds, and it’s been pretty messy, so we’ll have to pull ourselves together in the third period.”
He looked up to find Eden smiling at him. “C’mon, Jace,” she said, climbing off his lap.
“Where are we going?” He glanced at the television. “Okay, but we have ten minutes—”
“Shh.” Eden took his hand, and Owen nearly laughed at the power his sister had over the six-foot-four former enforcer who could still make grown men cry with a growl. Eden cast a look at Scotty as she left.
“Max, how about a cookie?” Grace said, tugging him out of the room. Max caught her at the door, one hand going around her waist.
“Max doesn’t want a cookie,” he growled, pressing his lips to her neck, and she giggled as they left.
Awkward. Owen blew out a breath, ran his suddenly wet hands over his jeans. He shot another look at Scotty. She was barefoot and his gaze caught—too long—on the sight of her toes all dolled up with siren-red polish.
Huh.
“Sounds like a good game.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He tore his gaze away and focused back on the television, where the announcers were rounding up recaps of other games around the league.
He didn’t even hear her move, just felt the sofa dip, the sense of her beside him. He stiffened, glanced at her, sitting so close to him that he could lean a little her direction—
Oh, man.
“Did you have fun with my sisters? We thought we heard you singing.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. She met his gaze, her mouth tipping up in a smile.
Lips. Pert, shiny lips.
He found his voice. “They’re a little . . . Well, Eden has this tendency to never mind her own business. I lived with her for a while during my early years, and she’s like the queen meddler.”
“She’s nice. I like her.”
“And Grace is a dreamer. She seems to think that if she makes cookies, everyone will live happily ever after.”
“Not a bad way to solve the world’s problems.”
“I think you’d really like Amelia. She’s the most levelheaded, or well, she’s . . . Actually, I don’t know. Amelia was only fourteen when I took off for the juniors, and even then we didn’t hang out that much.”
“Owen, about today, on the rink—”
“Oh no, let’s not talk about that, thanks. In fact, if you could go ahead and forget the entire thing . . . Just leave it, okay?”
She fell silent beside him.
Now he felt like a jerk. A jerk whose heart seemed to be lodged in his throat. “Not that I wasn’t . . .” He cleared his throat, trying. “Glad, you know, that you were there. And . . . thanks for . . .” Wow, was she wearing perfume? It reached out to him, sweet and floral, and gave a little tug.
He couldn’t take it. “Are you okay? There’s something . . . Is there something different about you?”
Her jaw tightened, her smile vanishing. And it had the effect of the cold ocean washing over him.
He knew he should be scrambling here, for something, anything. “Scotty—”
“No. This is stupid. I knew this was stupid. I’m not like your sisters. I’m just not . . .” She got up.
What—?
“Wait, Scotty—wait!” He lunged for her, grabbing her arm. “What’s going on? Are you upset?”
“No!” She shook out of his grip, wrinkled her face as if to rein in a rush of feelings. “I’m fine.”
“You’re wearing mascara?”
“No—yes—whatever.” She turned away. “I’m so stupid.”
Stupid? “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” She headed for the door, but he wasn’t about to let her get that far. He ducked past her, propped his hand over the doorway.
“Get out of my way.”
“No.” He put his hand under her chin to lift her face. “What’s going on?”
She blew her nose, then wadded the tissue into her pocket. “I was trying to . . .” Shaking her head, she looked at the ceiling. “Flirt.”
Flirt.
He couldn’t help the laughter that burst out. “Flirt?”
“S
ee, even you’re laughing.” She put her hand on his chest.
But he shackled her wrist and pulled it away, growing solemn. “Easy there, I’m still a little sore.”
And now she looked stricken, trying to jerk her hand away. But he held it. “Scotty, tell me why you were trying to . . . flirt . . . with me.”
Her expression betrayed defeat, her voice wavering. “I don’t know. It’s because of . . . this afternoon. You were looking at me like . . . I thought you were going to kiss me, and then you didn’t and I thought maybe . . . And then your sisters put all this gunk on me and acted like your head would pop off—”
“My head is popping off,” he said, a strange, wonderful warmth spreading through him. He reached up to run his thumb over the bones of her face, softly tracing them. “In fact, I haven’t a thought left in my head except how utterly beautiful you are.”
“I’m not. I probably have mascara running down my face—”
“You do. And it’s very, very cute.”
She bit her lip.
“You have gorgeous eyes. And your hair . . .” He reached up, loosened it, and it fell over her shoulders. He tangled his fingers into it. “You take my breath away, Scotty. You have since that first day on the boat, when you made me call you sir. And yeah, you’re pretty amazing right now, but you’ve always been amazing. I don’t care if you’re dressed in overalls or a grimy thermal shirt, smelling of fish, or . . . well, I wouldn’t exactly mind you in a dress.”
Her eyes widened, her mouth opening.
And he didn’t care one iota about her inane rules. “Scotty, your flirting totally works.” He curled his hand around her waist. “In fact, I’m going to have to kiss you.”
He’d imagined this, imagined kissing her—really kissing her—since that moment on the raft. Tasting the Scotty who’d saved his life and believed in him even when he couldn’t believe in himself. And the kiss they’d shared in the car had only whetted his appetite.
Now he pulled her to himself, one arm around her waist, backing her against the wall. Then he braced a hand over her head, bent down, and met her eyes for a lingering second—one where he let her see his intentions—before he pressed his lips against hers. With nothing of hesitation, just so she knew he had no intention of holding back.
She tasted sweet, her lips soft under his, and if he wondered whether she really wanted to be kissed, she answered in the way she slipped her arms around his waist and molded her body to his, lighting every inch of him on fire. Yet her kiss was cautious, hesitant.
And that only made him love her more.
Love. The word crept into his brain, but once it got there, it spread through his entire body. Yeah, he loved her. He loved her bossiness and the way she refused to give up on him. Loved how she could flip from all business to holding his hand, caring, understanding. Around her, he forgot he was broken; he felt whole and as if he did have a future. A bright, brilliant future filled with the love of this beautiful woman.
The thought broke him away from her, and he stared at her, his breathing hard as he caught her eyes.
She blinked up at him. “Um . . .”
“Scotty. Please tell me that this isn’t an impulse. That my sisters didn’t talk you into doing something you didn’t want to do. Because I’m so crazy about you I just might—”
“Propose?” Her mouth lifted up on one side.
She must have seen the panic on his face because she pressed her hand to his cheek. “Shh. Just . . . kiss me.”
Right. Okay, yeah. Because even though he wasn’t proposing, there he was, running ahead of himself, grabbing on to a future that he still didn’t have a clear view of.
Except for her, right in the middle of it.
So he bent down and kissed her again, wrapping his other arm around her, losing himself in her sweet sounds, the way she became his with her surrender.
“Is it game time?” Jace’s voice parted them. “Whoa—hey, sorry, dude!”
Owen glanced over to see Jace turning to block Eden’s entrance.
At the sound of a giggle, he looked back at Scotty. He tucked her hair behind her ear. I love you. Wow, he wanted to say that, but it might be akin to Will you marry me? and he didn’t want to freak her out.
“And that’s how it’s done,” Eden said, pushing past Jace into the room. She patted Owen’s shoulder, and he stared after her, bewildered.
Scotty ducked out from under Owen’s arm, leaving him to lean against the wall, watching as she plunked down beside Eden, who handed her a bowl of fresh-popped popcorn.
“C’mon, Wild!” Scotty shouted.
Owen sat next to her, put his arm around her, and miraculously, she snuggled right in.
As if she’d always belonged.
Suddenly everything in his life seemed to fit exactly into place.
CASPER HADN’T KILLED MONTE RIGGS, but he’d wanted to.
Or maybe he’d simply wanted Monte to exit his life, Raina’s life, quickly, quietly. And he certainly didn’t feel any grief over the news that Monte had ended up in a ditch somewhere.
Except, after sitting in the Deep Haven jail for the past two days, it seemed Monte had his revenge. And truth be told, if Monte were to show up today in the cell opposite Casper, he couldn’t deny that he might do exactly what Kyle had accused him of.
“Remember, let me do the talking. It’s just an initial appearance. They’ll read your charges and set bail. You don’t need to enter a plea or respond in any way. That’s why I’m here.” His attorney—a guy from Minneapolis he didn’t know, procured by Max to appear with Casper in court today—paced the tiny holding room, preparing Casper for the next step.
The next step in his journey to prison if someone didn’t start believing him. He could only say, I did not kill Monte Riggs so many times before he had to admit that no one was listening.
Casper sat at the table, his head in his hands, trying to hold in the fury that burned like an ember inside. “This can’t be happening. I didn’t kill Monte.” He looked at the lawyer—Brian? Bruce? Clearly a man who had never spent a night in jail, with his slick wool suit, his manicured nails, his short, gelled hair. He even smelled good.
Casper smelled like old soap, two days of living in the same clothes, and the vibrant odor of increasing panic.
He hadn’t been given a razor, but he’d cleaned up for today with a suit—one of Max’s, maybe, because Casper didn’t remember owning one—a white shirt, a tie. He looked like a lumberjack who’d gotten lost at some hoity-toity charity event.
“I don’t want to know,” the lawyer said. Bryce. That was his name. “I don’t even care. What I care about is getting you out of here and home. We’ll worry about your defense after that.”
“We need to worry about it now! They can’t just pick someone out of a crowd and accuse him of murder.”
Bryce opened his briefcase, now on the table, and pulled out a folder. “They didn’t pick you out of a crowd, Casper. They have a case that, from a jury’s perspective, might seem open-and-shut. They’re charging you with voluntary manslaughter, which means that even if you didn’t plan on killing Monte Riggs, you had the ability, means, and opportunity to do so.”
Casper shook his head, not really seeing Bryce, instead taking in the door with the reinforced window, the plastic table bolted to the floor, and the fact that in about ten minutes, Kyle would put cuffs on him and treat him like he belonged here.
A criminal.
“This isn’t fair.”
“It never is.” Bryce closed the briefcase. “See you in court.”
Casper looked away, not sure if he’d heard sarcasm or not. He waited in silence after Bryce departed, trying to find his breath despite the hand that seemed to push on his sternum.
Because Deep Haven shared a circuit judge, he’d spent two precious days watching reruns of game shows on an ancient television secured high on a wall and playing solitaire with a deck short three cards. And reading—a couple issues of Popular Mechanics
, a Reader’s Digest from the eighties. He’d even done a few push-ups because they burned off the energy that buzzed through him, kept him staring at the ceiling with what-ifs and how-comes and why-hims. Longest two days of his life.
He’d probably lost five pounds despite Grace’s and his mother’s food deliveries, his appetite having vanished the moment Kyle fingerprinted him.
If it weren’t for Raina, he might have simply curled into a ball, refused to eat, but she’d been at the jail for every moment of visiting hours, reassuring him with her eyes, resting her hand against the glass to align with his own.
He longed to put his fist through the glass, to climb into her embrace.
To believe her words: Everything will work out.
The door opened, and Kyle came in. Casper glared at him, not a word to articulate the sense of betrayal.
“Get up and turn around, hands behind your back,” Kyle said.
Casper obeyed, grinding his molars as the jangle of handcuffs echoed through the room. Then Kyle led him out through the jail, past the eyes of deputies Julie Applewood, who he’d sat next to in biology, and Marty Finch, who he had sold a pair of snowshoes to last winter.
They said nothing, and Casper refused to look anywhere but ahead.
Injustice burrowed through him as Kyle put a hand on his head and helped him into the cruiser parked outside. The slightest nip of winter touched his neck, the weather turning from autumn to early morning frost in the two days he’d been incarcerated.
What would happen if he had to spend weeks, even months, waiting in the Deep Haven jail for a trial?
He burned a hole in Kyle’s head through the grate between seats as they drove the three blocks to the courthouse. Kyle pulled around back, next to another cruiser, and opened the door.
Casper managed not to yank out of his grip as Kyle grabbed his arm, directed him inside. “I know where to go,” he grumbled, but that sounded guilty, so he shut his mouth.
Kyle brought him to an anteroom next to the courtroom, pointed to a chair by the wall. “Wait here.”
Casper refused to sit, choosing to stare out the window at the lake, at the pewter-gray sky. Of everyone who should be in jail . . . well, it shouldn’t be him. He did things right. Sure, he’d jumped Owen once upon a time, but frankly, he’d felt just a smidgen of righteousness over that act. Someone had to wake up his brother to his stupidity. And maybe it had worked because Owen seemed to have changed, at least a little.
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