Hooked on You

by Kate Meader

  Bren: Uh, thanks?

  Violet: No problem! BTW, Cat’s no longer vegan . . . you’re welcome! Night, Nessie!

  “Mami, what’s the best way to get blood out of clothing?”

  Violet held the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, wishing she’d put it on speaker. Too late now, as she was already scrubbing a T-shirt with dish soap in the kitchen sink at Bren’s house.

  “You haven’t called in weeks and this is what you open with? Have you finally done away with one of those rich white girls?”

  Violet sighed. Since her mom had moved back to Puerto Rico eighteen months ago, she’d been a touch snide whenever Violet called, partly because Violet didn’t move with her. San Juan had never been her home, and it sure as hell wouldn’t start being so now.

  But mostly her mom’s attitude stemmed from the fact Violet had moved to Chicago to get to know her sisters. Louisa Vasquez thought Clifford Chase was the devil and his spawn not much better—present company excluded, of course.

  “I talked to you three days ago, so quit exaggerating. And we always talk about the same things. The weather, your lumbago, the weather, how it affects your lumbago—”

  “Okay, okay, point taken. And now you want to talk about covering up some crime involving blood-spattered clothing.”

  No wonder Clifford Chase had run a mile. Of course, he’d recognized a gold digger when he saw one and he was smart enough to ensure that his latest baby mama wouldn’t get a dime for herself. Violet’s Catholic school tuition fees at St. Ita’s were paid directly by Clifford’s lawyer. Anything else had to be itemized and justified as necessary to Violet’s upkeep. Louisa’s scam hadn’t left her any better off, just on the hook for an unwanted child.

  Violet had found that part out later. Before the age of thirteen, she’d never doubted her mom’s love for her, that Violet was wanted. She knew Louisa loved her in her own way, but unfortunately it was tangled up in something ugly and sordid.

  Biting her lip at her uncharitable thoughts, she tried a reboot of the conversation.

  “Hola, Mami, how are you? How’s the weather? Is your lumbago acting up? Any tips for getting blood out of a shirt?”

  “What kind of material?”

  “Cotton. A T-shirt belonging to one of the girls. Franky, Bren’s youngest, had a nosebleed.”

  Violet had already filled her mom in on her new position. Expecting pride that Violet was doing something more productive than answering phones in a tattoo parlor or slinging hard liquor in a biker bar was probably too much. That she was looking after rich gringitas was an extra dose of salt in her self-inflicted wound.

  For most of Violet’s childhood, Louisa had worked two jobs—one as a hotel maid, the other as a diner waitress—and now that Violet was a wealthy woman, all her mother could see was the hoops Violet had to jump through to get what was rightfully hers as Clifford Chase’s daughter. Picking up after rich white people was just another mark against Clifford and the tentacles he seemed to extend from the grave.

  “I did not raise you to be a maid to some rich man’s children.”

  “I’m a nanny, and it’s temporary.”

  “I don’t understand why you are there at all. Why have you not sold your share? That’s your money. It’s what you are owed.”

  It was what Louisa was owed. The fruits of the score she’d set in motion all those years ago.

  “I’m waiting until the end of the season, Mami. I told you. The franchise will be more valuable if the Rebels are champions. They’ll have to give me more.”

  That knot between her lungs pulsed at her mercenary thoughts, but she had never lied to Harper and Isobel about her plans. They knew this life wasn’t for her.

  “Just remember,” her mom said. “Those girls are not your real family. Don’t get soft and let them off the hook.”

  “Bloodstains?” She was beginning to wish she’d just Googled it, but she’d assumed her mother might enjoy feeling useful. The woman enjoyed something, all right.

  “Put baking soda in water to make a paste. Spread it on the stain, let sit for thirty minutes or overnight. You could also use lemon juice or hydrogen peroxide.”

  “Thanks. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Her mother sniffed derisively. “This man you are working for, the alcoholic?”

  “Done some research, then?”

  “Have you? What if he goes on a binge? Takes it out on you? If he hits you, call the police. Or better yet, get a gun.”

  “Mami—”

  “Your aunt didn’t call the police and she got into trouble later.”

  Aunt Cecy hit her good-for-nothing husband with a baseball bat instead of calling the cops. He deserved it, but the police didn’t look kindly on the introduction of weapons into the situation. All her mom’s and aunts’ experiences with men were skewed, so much so that Violet wondered how she’d made it out of their man-hating cocoon free of their bitterness.

  Maybe she hadn’t. She wasn’t exactly interested in anything long term.

  “Bren’s not like that. He’s a new man.” She didn’t know what he was like before, but she saw no evidence that he was in imminent danger of falling back into his old habits. His daughters meant too much to him. “And I can handle myself. You know I can.” She’d broken up plenty of bar fights and knew how to throw a punch. Not that it would ever be necessary with the Scot. The guy wasn’t dangerous.

  At least not in the way her mother thought.

  She was having a lot of fun texting him about silly things, as if she didn’t know sugary sodas after 6 p.m. were the work of the devil. Maybe she liked the idea of them making child-care decisions together. Totally whacked, Vasquez.

  Her mother’s answer was another disapproving sniff. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can rely on this man. Not after the last time.”

  Violet bit down on her lip, annoyed to be reminded of “the last time” and the man who had let her down when she’d found out about the big C. The minute things got tough, Denny Carter got slithering.

  Babe, I can’t. It reminds me of my grandma’s last days.

  He’d reached out when her father died, a call that, funnily enough, coincided with her inheriting a professional sports franchise. Subtlety had never been one of Denny’s strong points. She wasn’t fool enough to fall for him again. She was all out of second chances.

  Because her mother was paying rent inside her head, her next words weren’t all that surprising. “They’re not like us, Violet. That bastard screwed with their minds, and now they are warped by too much money and not enough love. Don’t forget who was there for you through the bad times.”

  Violet knew better than to rely on anyone but those closest to her—the women who had raised her. As soon as the play-offs were done, she’d move on.

  “I won’t forget, Mami.”

  “Good. And don’t leave it so long to call your mother next time.” She clicked off.

  ELEVEN

  Gretzky attacked as soon as he walked in the door.

  “Down, fella,” Bren shout-whispered as he reset the alarm. Kendra’s birthday. Probably should change that.

  Five in the morning, so his girls would be asleep. Violet, too. With the weight of his daughters’ care off his shoulders, he’d played a blinder in game seven, scoring a goal and racking up three assists.

  They’d made it to round two.

  Winning also meant that Violet would have to stick around for another few weeks. He smiled to himself, strangely pleased with that notion. He’d barely seen her before he left for Dallas, as Harper had brought her up to speed with to-do lists and emergency numbers and Franky’s medications.

  He dumped his bag at the bottom of the stairs, knowing he’d have to do laundry later. Maybe the girls’ laundry as well. Harper had hired someone who could come in once a week on Thursdays—who knew housekeepers were so hard to find?—and she wasn’t due in until . . . what day was it again? Friday morning. So she would have stopped by ye
sterday.

  He couldn’t think about this now, not when his bed was calling him softly.

  He stopped outside Franky’s room and pushed the door open. She had fallen asleep with her glasses on—a typical occurrence—and her Kindle was resting on her chest. She was rereading Harry Potter for the fifth time. He stepped in, pulled gently on her glasses, and laid them on her nightstand along with the e-reader. She stirred a little, but didn’t wake.

  A feeling of such overwhelming love enveloped him that his knees almost buckled. Don’t fuck up, Bren. Do not fuck up.

  He put his head around Caitriona’s door. The sleep of the dead for that one, which made him smile. He hoped she’d start talking to him soon. His smile faded, remembering how he’d hurt her. Hurt them both.

  Halfway to his room, ready to drop like a log, he decided he probably should make sure Violet had actually stayed the night like she was supposed to. Not that he doubted she would, but it was his duty as an employer to—

  Ah, shut yer hole, St. James. You just want to see her.

  The door to the guest room she’d taken was open, close enough to the girls if one of them called out. Of course, she wouldn’t be sleeping here while he was, except for these brief few hours when their time in the house overlapped.

  Over the past three days, he’d spoken to her a couple of times, just to check in. Texted more, which worked better for him. That way, he could think about what to say, though it wasn’t exactly producing polished gemstones of wit.

  He looked in, needing to verify she was here. Safe.

  If he wasn’t already sure that someone up there hated him, the sight before him would have confirmed it. She lay sprawled on her front, the edge of her white panties riding up to showcase the curve of her perfect ass. The comforter was pulled back, one of her legs twisted in it. Buttery stripes of light through the blinds splashed the back of her thigh, illuminating those inked vines that stretched around her legs. He knew the front of her thighs were tattooed with roses and other red, pink, and orange blooms.

  Would they unfurl if he touched them? Would she?

  Some asshole tattoo artist had sat beside her, hunched over her luscious skin while he applied the tools of his trade. Bren wondered if it had hurt her, then decided that she was a tough woman. She had to be, given how Clifford had treated her.

  During his musing about her body ink, his eyes had adjusted better. The panties had writing on them, a couple of words in a tiny script emblazoned across her ass, too small for him to read from this distance.

  He moved closer. N-O-S . . . A smile cracked his face, enough of a surprise that his facial muscles protested slightly. In tiny text, the message on Violet’s ass spelled out:

  NOSEY

  FUCKER

  Jesus, this woman was going to be the end of him.

  She turned over. He stepped back, but it was too late.

  “Hey,” she whispered, swiping a hand over her eyes. The watery dawn light spotlighted the curve of her breasts in a way he should not be noticing. She wasn’t overly ample, but there looked to be the right amount to fill his hands.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Just checking on my girls.”

  “Your girls?”

  He heard the smile in her voice at what she might consider a slipup, and perhaps it was. Violet, his girl.

  He cleared his throat. “How were things?”

  “Good. They have a lot of energy.”

  On the subject of energy, and more specifically on how to temper it, he shoved his hands into his jean pockets and backed up a few steps to lean against the doorjamb. Talking about his daughters with their nanny was perfectly appropriate. Just a standard debrief.

  De. Brief.

  Christ, the comforter sat at midthigh, providing no coverage whatsoever. From this angle, there was no missing that dark shadow of hair behind the white fabric of her panties. Through his pocket, he knuckled his hardening cock, willing it to behave.

  He should leave, but something—someone—was cementing his feet to the floor. No traces of self-consciousness showed on her face. In fact, she cat-stretched her arm above her head, the pull of the fabric over her breasts downright delicious.

  “Need me to make coffee?” she asked, her voice a lazy tease.

  He hauled himself back from the brink. “No, I should get to bed. Didn’t sleep on the plane.”

  She nodded. “You played well, St. James. The girls are very proud.”

  He backed out, slowly, so as not to fall on his ass. As he turned away, he heard her say in a soft voice, “So am I.”

  He awoke to the sound of laughter, and for the briefest moment, he thought Kendra was here with the girls. He shook himself awake. Not Kendra.

  Her.

  He’d know his girls’ laughter anywhere, but why did it sound even better with the addition of Violet’s husky chuckle? Then Gretzky’s bark joined the heart-affirming chorus. They must be in the garden.

  Swinging his legs out of the bed, he stood and ambled over to the window of his bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Christ, he ached something fierce. He’d had the requisite rubdowns and check-ins with the physio after last night’s game, but the stiffness often hit him in the morning. He was turning into Old Man DuPre, who was always complaining about his broken-down body. Remy said he was retiring because he was skating on fumes, but Bren knew the guy had a few more years in him. His friend was stepping down because he saw a life after hockey and it had finally come into focus when he met Harper. The guy who needed the Cup to complete his career was content to let it slip through his fingers if this season didn’t pan out. This year or never. Must be nice to have it all worked out.

  Bren had never felt so out of his depth in his entire life.

  Not strictly true. Fifteen months ago, he’d hit rock bottom. The memory of his girls’ eyes still haunted him, the terror he’d inspired in them a crushing weight on his chest.

  Kendra must not have told her parents what he’d done, because they sure as hell would have brought it up if she had. She’d held it over him for more money, sole custody, a brand-new house in Atlanta so she could be with Drew. Bren could have fought, but he would have lost.

  He’d put his daughters’ lives at risk—and his wife had used it as leverage.

  Kendra had never wanted kids. She’d wanted the life of a pro hockey WAG, and a child was her most direct means to that end. An accidental pregnancy a few weeks after he signed his first pro contract—it didn’t take a genius to figure out that one.

  He’d liked her well enough. He’d fancied the hell out of her. And she was having his child. He was on top of the world, and when Kendra suggested they get married, he hadn’t even questioned it. A child of divorced parents, Bren only got to see his dad during the summers in Canada. Bringing his daughter up in a two-parent home was a no-brainer. Hadn’t he already bought the house? And now he had the hot wife, the gorgeous baby, the lucrative contract. Now he had the life he’d always craved.

  Within a year, he and Kendra were at loggerheads. She wanted a bigger house. She wanted to live downtown, where there was nightlife and better restaurants. Decaying in the suburbs was not what she’d signed up for.

  She threatened to leave him—or maybe he threatened to leave her?

  Then she found out she was pregnant with Franky, and there was no more talk of divorce. They had kids—two beautiful, bright-as-buttons girls—and Bren let Kendra have her way. Her own apartment in the city, which she’d descend on as soon as he came back from an away game.

  I’ve been holed up here for days. Now it’s your turn.

  She went through money like water. When he had to go away for a game, she’d return as if on sufferance. As if spending time with her girls was a chore.

  A flick of the cord opened the blinds and let in the midday sun. But the ball in the sky had nothing on the brightness shining in the garden. Two little sprites, a demon on four legs, and a—what should he call Violet?

  A siren. A temptres
s. A pain in his ass.

  More like your balls, St. James.

  She was at it again with the short denim skirt, revealing all that ink he wanted to run his tongue over. Would inked skin taste different from uninked? He owed it to himself to find out.

  Violet held a tennis ball high in the air and pointed at Gretzky with her other hand. Trying to teach him to sit up and beg, perhaps. A losing proposition.

  The big black mutt just stood there on all four legs, tail wagging in adoration, waiting for her to throw the ball. Franky was giggling, and even Caitriona looked amused. He hoped he’d made the right decision and that it wasn’t his dick talking. He could resist her.

  If he could resist a drink, he could certainly resist the charms of Violet Vasquez.

  Siren. Temptress. His daughters’ primary caregiver.

  TWELVE

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Violet turned to the grating voice behind her. It belonged to the jogger from a week ago, who was now dressed in tight yoga pants and a hot pink tank top, showcasing a great rack. Violet would know, as she was a bit of an expert on breasts that had a good surgeon at their root. This doctor had done a very nice job.

  “Hey there!” She power-walked up the drive, arms bent, fists as pistons fueling her stride. Blond hair scraped back in a ponytail. Makeup perfect. “I live next door and we just got back yesterday from St. Barts. My kids, Jeremy and Lance, used to play with the girls.”

  Violet assumed, no, prayed, that “the girls” referred to Franky and Cat, not the puppies packing the tank top.

  Jogger in Pink yammered on. “They’re at school right now, but I know they’d love to come over to hang out. Supervised, of course.” She wrinkled her nose, taking in Violet’s denim skirt, sloppy tee, and cowboy boots. Violet as supervisor did not pass muster. “I could bring them by later and—oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Skylar Nichols.”