A Better Man

by Candis Terry

  “You . . .” She turned to look at the room again. “I . . .”

  “Is speechless a good sign, Lucy?”

  She inhaled a breath she hoped would calm her nerves and nodded. “It’s a very good sign.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for.”

  “So . . . your note . . . wishes, dreams, and happily-­ever-­afters?”

  “I dug my old yearbook out of the closet to find the theme for the prom in our senior year.”

  “I never knew.”

  “I figured as much. Too hokey?”

  “Not at all. You went to a lot of trouble.”

  “It was my pleasure. I liked you back in high school, Lucy. Had I not been such a stupid, self-­centered ass, I would have asked you to prom.” His broad shoulders shrugged. “I’m just trying to make up for errors and lost time.”

  “You really need to let that go.”

  “I will. After tonight.”

  “I . . . really don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll dance with me.” He held out his hand. “I probably haven’t improved any since high school, but I’m willing to give it a shot if you are.”

  She placed her hand in his. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “You can tell me anything.”

  For maybe the first time in her life, she found she’d like to tell someone all her confidences. But she’d long ago buried them and she wouldn’t let the thought of them resurfacing now put a damper on this wonderful moment. “I don’t know how to dance,” she whispered.

  “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

  When he swept her into his arms and across the floor, Lucy knew he was a big fat liar. The man danced like he’d taken lessons from Fred Astaire.

  Of course he was sure-­footed and full of male grace. The man did his job and had spent most of his life on thin steel blades whooshing across slippery ice. To his credit, he made following his steps easy. Maybe it was because he held her close enough that the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne wrapped her up in a web that made it impossible to do otherwise. Or maybe it was the look he gave her that said, Trust me.

  They danced for several slow, romantic songs before he led her to the table in the center of the room, pulled out her chair, then pushed it back in after she was seated. Standing next to her, he lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and uncorked the champagne with a flair that said he’d done the task before. Then he filled their glasses and they clinked crystal.

  He moved his chair next to hers before he sat down.

  “You’re very good at all this,” she said.

  “This?”

  “Dancing. Pouring champagne. Making fairy tales come true.” She sipped her champagne and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose. “If you’re not careful, you’ll shatter the beer-­drinking, belly-­scratching, Neanderthal image of hockey players I’ve been harboring all these years.”

  He laughed, and the sound that came from deep in his chest called out to something at the very core of her foundation. She’d never known a man to go to such extremes without expecting something in return. At least, that had always been her past experience. Still, tonight she was determined to keep that past where it belonged.

  “I can guarantee your image might not be far off base. There are several guys on my team who’d probably admit they’re barely above knuckle dragging.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head, and that dark hair and smile gleamed beneath the chandelier light. “The Rock grunts at everything. It’s his favorite form of communication.”

  “The Rock? I thought he was a movie star who got paid for talking.”

  “Different guy. The one on my team got the nickname for how many times his head has hit the boards, yet he always comes up smiling.”

  “Sounds brutal.”

  “It can be. No one plans it. But there’s so much aggression to get to the puck it sometimes ends up that way. If a guy keeps getting in your face or plays dirty, you can’t help but want to check him and let your fists do the talking.”

  “Check him?”

  “Slam him into the boards to stop his forward motion or try to steal the puck.”

  “There’s so much I don’t know about this game.” She grimaced. “And I’m not exactly sure I’d want to learn.”

  “Have you ever been to a hockey game?”

  “No.” And she didn’t want to admit that she’d seen him play a few games on TV either. “But my best friend and her husband are sports nuts. I’ve caught a few minutes of a playoff game on TV once or twice.”

  “It’s different when you’re actually in the arena.”

  She finished her glass of bubbly. Interested in the conversation, she leaned in while he poured them both another glass. “Different how?”

  “You get caught up in the energy of the crowd. The fast pace of the game. You ever watch football?”

  “A few times.” And only when she’d been forced to because she’d been invited to a Super Bowl party.

  “It’s a lot like when the running back has the ball and he’s racing toward the goalposts and the crowd is sure he’ll score. That kind of thrill happens constantly in hockey.”

  “Did you know your eyes light up when you talk about it?” They really did. And as crazy as it seemed, that wondrous glow made him even more handsome.

  “I’m not surprised. It’s all I’ve ever known and for a reason. I love the game.”

  “I feel like that about teaching.” Although they didn’t need it, she smoothed the ruffles on her dress. She wasn’t used to talking about herself. But she guessed talking about her job was safe enough. “Sometimes I’ll get a student who not only has talent but is enthusiastic about learning. I get a crazy burst of adrenaline and I can’t wait to get back to school the following day to help guide them some more. I always dream that I may have the next Ernest Hemingway or even the next generation’s J.K. Rowling in my class.”

  “Do you write?” he asked, refilling the glass she didn’t even know she’d emptied.

  “I dabble,” she admitted, figuring it was a safe enough answer and that he really wouldn’t be interested in asking more. “But my main focus is teaching.”

  “What do you write?” He leaned both tux-­covered forearms on the table and gave her his full attention.

  Okay, so she’d underestimated him.

  Lucy bit her lip—­literally—­trying to decide whether to answer him truthfully or to stretch the truth in another direction. Then again, she could always divert the conversation with . . .

  “I love this song. Bruno Mars is my favorite.” Not that she didn’t really love Bruno, but right now he was her only way out of this conversation. She stood and held out her hand. “Dance with me?”

  “Sure. And if you like it that much I’ll be happy to play the song again.” He captured her hand so she couldn’t escape, then gave her a little tug so she’d sit down again. “Right now I’m more interested in what you write about.”

  Deep breath, Lucy. You can do this.

  “I write . . . don’t laugh . . . love stories.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. When he didn’t laugh, she gathered the courage to continue. “Actually, I’ve written several stories about two characters who meet during an adventure. They’re both after the same treasure, so throughout the books each is trying to outsmart the other. Of course, all the while they’re falling in love. Sort of like Indiana Jones meets Katniss Everdeen.”

  For a moment he just looked at her, like he couldn’t figure out whether she was serious or had seriously lost her mind.

  “What inspired you to write?”

  How did she explain that because her own life had been so miserable, the only way to find happiness was to write characters and help them find their own.

  “
There’s a really long explanation, but for the most part I got the idea one day while I was”—­wrapping a bruised rib—­“waiting for my class to hand in their work. The whole story unfolded in my head in about five minutes. Of course, it took me much longer to actually write the work.”

  “I’d love to read them.”

  “Oh. No, you wouldn’t.” She scoffed and looked away, suddenly finding the castle backdrop on the stage riveting. “But it’s kind of you to say so.”

  He tucked two fingers beneath her chin and turned her head so she’d look at him. “I’m not really the kind of guy who bullshits about things, Lucy. So unless you’re trying to insult me by saying you don’t think I’m smart enough to read because I’m a dumb jock—­”

  “I would never say that!”

  “Then why is it so hard to believe that I’d want to read your stories?”

  The sincerity in his eyes knocked her over. How was it that this man kept surprising her?

  “Okay. It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve never let anyone read my work. To be honest, I just don’t have that much . . . confidence.”

  “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  Apparently not smart enough.

  Once upon a time she’d thought being smart was her ticket out of a miserable life and into something wonderful. But even with her high IQ, she hadn’t been smart enough to trust her instincts and she’d walked right into a nightmare.

  “I’m sure what you’ve written is wonderful,” Jordan said. “But no one will ever discover that until you take a chance. That’s what life is all about.” He leaned back. “Hell. I’m taking so many chances these days I can barely keep up with myself.”

  “You mean with your sister.”

  “My sister. My entire family, for that matter. My career.” He sipped his champagne, watching her over the glass. When he was done he tilted the flute in her direction. “And you.”

  “Me?” She pointed to herself like there was someone else in the room he could be referring to.

  A slow nod came with a smile. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been chasing you all over town. I took a chance you wouldn’t shut the door in my face after the way I treated you on graduation night.”

  His honesty took her aback, and only one response would do. “Why?”

  “You intrigue me. You challenge me. And to be honest, I just flat-­out like you.”

  “I’ve . . . never had anyone say that before.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head in beat with her pounding heart.

  “Well, then I’ll have to remember to say it more.” He leaned in. “I like you, Lucy.”

  “I . . . like you too.”

  “Great.” He stood and held out his hand. “Then how about we make some more memories.”

  She put her hand in his. “Where to now?”

  “The corner.”

  “Like a make-­out corner?”

  “Nope. Saving that for later.” He led her to a small, curtained-­off area, pulled back the black drape, and gave her a playful push inside. “Right now we’re going to make complete asses of ourselves in this photo booth.”

  “A photo booth?” She looked at the window and camera light in front of them and immediately felt intimidated. She’d never done anything like this before.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He was gone only a minute. When he came back his arms were full of props—­a colorful zebra print hat, a bright boa, a pink jeweled tiara, a huge mustache on a stick, and glitter-­framed glasses.

  “Oh. You are so wearing the boa.” She laughed. Since he’d gone to all this trouble she could hardly say no to a little fun. Even if she looked silly doing it. “And the glitter glasses.”

  “No problem.” He plopped the tiara on his head. “I’m perfectly comfortable enough in my masculinity.”

  Another giggle bubbled from her throat as they piled on the props, then posed like complete fools just before the camera flashed. Lucy had never done anything so crazy and she was surprised at how good it felt. Being with Jordan made her feel good, almost like she was a different person. And for the most part, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  As the camera counted down for another shot, she tilted her bright yellow zebra fedora, held up the red paper mustache, and pursed her lips. Jordan caught her around the waist and pulled her in for a mustache kiss.

  The kiss lasted long enough for several flashes, and wrapping her arms around the boa circling his neck, Lucy forgot all about the camera until he lifted his head.

  “Ready to see how crazy we look?”

  She nodded and he tugged her hand, and they pushed aside the curtain to wait for the developed pictures to drop into the slot.

  “Oh my God.” She pressed her fingers to her lips to hold back a laugh. Tux-­wearing Jordan Kincade wrapped in a hot pink feather boa, a tiara, and silver glitter glasses was a sight to behold. “Those are total blackmail worthy.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled. “I’m sure my teammates would love to get their gloves on these.”

  Lucy snatched them from his hand and dropped them down the front of her dress. “Which is why you should be nice to me.” She grinned and backed away when he reached for her. “Be afraid, Jordan. Be very afraid.”

  When he caught her it was mid-­laugh. But that didn’t stop him from kissing her again and making her toes curl inside her very sparkly high heels.

  He removed the tiara and settled it on top of her head. “I officially dub you Prom Queen.”

  She touched the plastic crown. “I’ve never been queen of anything before.”

  “Honey, you can order me around all you want.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Now, how about we get you something to go with the bubbly? Something to keep your energy up for the rest of the night.” He swept his hand in the direction of a table she hadn’t noticed.

  “Holy . . .” She gasped. His attention to detail touched her deeply. “A chocolate fountain?”

  “Uh-­oh. Too much?”

  “Too delicious.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the table. “Strawberries, pineapple, marshmallows, and . . . oh my God, Rice Krispies treats.”

  “I assume you like chocolate?”

  “As much as I try to eat healthy, I adore it. I swear, if chocolate was a church I’d pray there every day.” She picked up the silver tongs and dropped several delicacies onto a white china plate before she stuck them under the Willy Wonka fountain of rich, dark chocolate.

  “The French believe it’s an aphrodisiac,” he said, holding a giant marshmallow beneath the chocolaty ripples.

  “I can understand why.” Lucy took a bite of a chocolate-­coated pineapple spear, closed her eyes, and moaned. “Oh. My. God. So good.”

  When she opened her eyes he was looking at her. Watching her with lust in the depths of those dark sapphire eyes.

  She didn’t know if the French were right about chocolate, but the desire she saw in his eyes tickled her in the center of her chest before it moved down toward her pink lace panties.

  For her the sensation was rare. Not that she didn’t ever have those kinds of feelings, but they’d been buried so deep beneath a layer of mistrust and displeasure she’d almost forgotten they existed.

  Jordan had no problem helping her remember.

  Before she knew what she was doing—­or could stop herself—­she grabbed the lapel of his tux and tugged him down until she could reach his lips.

  And then . . . she kissed him.

  If he never did anything like this again in his life, every moment Jordan had spent putting this faux prom together exploded like a flash fire when Lucy pressed her lips to his and moaned like she was in the throes of passion.

  Dancing with her so close had been sweet torture. Laughing with her had bee
n even better. The sweetness of her scent bloomed around him like summer roses. The heat of her body, the softness of her skin, enticed him like nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. And in his life he’d experienced a lot.

  Lucy was magic.

  With her lips on his he could barely control his passion. A rarity for him because he was all about control. Which did not bode well for his fantasy of laying her out on that table, spreading chocolate all over her luscious body, and licking it off.

  Hungry for more than just a light press of their lips, Jordan blindly set their plates on the table, drew her into his arms, and took possession of her mouth. She parted her lips, and the sweet taste of chocolate swept across his tongue. The intensity of the kiss deepened, burning him with the need for more. He filled his hands with her backside, pulling her in tighter to ease the ache behind his zipper. Her moaned response took him to a higher level of need. It clawed inside him, forcing past common sense and headed into dangerous territory.

  He wanted her.

  It was then he realized her moans didn’t seem quite real. Like she was timing them or inserting them into a blank space.

  What the hell?

  He eased out of the kiss and her eyes popped open.

  “Should we take this to the back of the limo?” she asked in a tone meant to sound seductive but instead came off sounding anxious.

  And not in a good way.

  Her actions and her comment were very un-­Lucy-­like.

  “I let the limo go. Figured I’d take you home in the SUV.”

  A combination of relief and embarrassment darkened her eyes.

  “Lucy. I didn’t set all this up with the expectations of anything more than giving you something you missed fifteen years ago.”

  “Oh.” She glanced away as if she couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. “Well . . . it’s been a lovely evening and I sincerely appreciate all your efforts although it wasn’t necessary. The past is the past.”