Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  She focused her attention on the road as if weaving through traffic instead of navigating the nearly empty highway. "I haven't had time to go to a game since I've been here."

  How could Pam, one of the biggest hockey fans I'd ever met, not have had time to go to even one game in three years? Maybe not since her divorce a year ago, but before that?

  "Anyhow, can I meet him?"

  "I'll try," I said, doing my best to sound enthusiastic, "but he's got some media interviews this afternoon and he's sometimes grouchy before games." Especially this week.

  "What's he got to be grouchy about? Aren't they paying him millions?"

  The dreaminess in her voice alarmed me. Did she want to meet Forrest to... no, surely she wouldn't ask him for money. Would she?

  We drove past her work en route to her house. The seedy little bar, with a sign reading, "Our waitresses are cheaper than the drinks," horrified me, and her home was even worse.

  I followed her down the stairs into her basement apartment, struggling to keep my shock hidden. We both craved sunlight; how could she stand this dank hole? She'd obviously tried to clean the place, but the carpet, so worn it felt like walking on concrete, was mottled with various stains and the kitchen and hall floors had age-old dirt embedded in every crack and dent. It was a tiny scruffy dark cellar, and the longer we stayed the more claustrophobic it felt.

  She saved her art studio for last. She'd put in fixtures with what she called full-spectrum light bulbs, and when she flicked the switch the room filled with fake sunlight. Her easel stood in the middle of the grimy carpet and her paints and brushes sat atop a scarred old table. Paintings, all hers, hung on three of the walls, and the fourth wall bore only an ornate oak shelf.

  "That shelf is gorgeous, but why's it empty?"

  "I saw it at an antique store the day after Greg left me and I just fell in love with it. I think of it as my prized possessions shelf," she said. "Once I get something that really matters to me, I'll put it up there."

  The thought of her without even one thing she loved enough to put on that shelf made my stomach churn. To hide it, I took a few steps toward her paintings. "I always liked this one," I said, pointing to our family's favorite campsite, painted when we were in our late teens.

  The lake sparkled in the sunlight, but as always something dark and terrifying loomed below the surface. Pam had such depth to her; I didn't think she'd reached even close to the bottom of the darkness. I didn't have those depths, didn't always see the dark side of everything the way she did.

  "I finished one today." She gestured to the easel, and I moved in for a closer look.

  Not so much depth as the basement of hell. Red and black slashed the canvas, and at first I couldn't see anything but the violent strokes. I stepped back, to see it better and to get away from the anger and pain in it, and realized it was a face. Her face, my face, the eyes staring me down with fury and defiance. The contrast between this and the campsite broke my heart.

  "I've never seen anything like it." I tried to smile. "Pompom, are you okay?"

  The childhood nickname fell out without my meaning to say it, and her lips quivered then tightened. "I'm fine. Yeah, it sucks about the art job, but I'm doing okay. And see, I'm getting lots of paintings done."

  I scanned the other new paintings, equally dark and lost. "You are. Good for you."

  "Yup. Good for me." She turned away. "Ready for lunch?"

  As she drove, she said, "Mom told me about the art gallery thing. You're so lucky."

  "I know." Why had Mom told her? Pam couldn't want to hear about my possible success.

  Except she did. She listened intently, almost hungrily, as I explained how Forrest had helped me, and how Jayne's rules were affecting my creative process.

  "But I'm not complaining," I said when I'd finished. "I'll get used to working that way and then it'll all be fine."

  "I'd tell her I was doing my own thing and she could sell it or not."

  "What if she said 'not'?"

  "Then she did. No way could I paint to order. I only paint what's in my heart."

  My mind catalogued the paintings in her house and the pain in them. "But doesn't it hurt to sell one then?"

  "Why would it?"

  "Because you're giving someone your feelings."

  She laughed. "I'm giving them the painting. That's it. I keep everything else. Once the piece is done, I let it go and I don't look back. The process is mine, but the piece belongs to anyone who cares to look at it."

  "So you don't care what happens to the finished ones?"

  "Wouldn't want to see them in a dumpster, but otherwise, no."

  We reached the restaurant, and she turned to me after finding a parking spot. "I'm in this to sell. When one's done, I never think of it again. On to the next."

  I sighed. "Don't know if I can do that."

  "You'll have to, to survive selling them," she said, undoing her seat belt.

  She had three drinks with lunch, ordering the first from the hostess who seated us, and I watched in horror as she changed, becoming at first the sister I remembered and then tensing into something so bright and brittle I was afraid she would shatter.

  With the first drink, she told me her job at the bar wasn't that bad. The second had her insisting that the art store job had only been restricting her own art. By the end she was bubbling over with excitement about how well her paintings would sell once she found the right gallery and how she just knew everything would work out for her, but the edge beneath it told me she didn't feel anything of the sort.

  We walked out to the car and I wondered if I should insist on driving. She seemed fine, aside from the razor-sharp cheeriness, but she'd had a lot to drink.

  "Hey, can I give your car a test drive?"

  She drew in her eyebrows. "Why?"

  I shrugged. "It's a Civic, right? I'm thinking about getting one." One made in the last ten years, but I didn't say that part.

  After a few seconds' gazing at my best innocent expression, Pam threw me the keys, a well-aimed toss over the car's roof and right into my hand. If she was drunk, it wasn't affecting her. Practice makes perfect.

  "So, can I meet Forrest?"

  "I'll ask," I said. "But honestly, I don't know. He's pretty busy."

  She rummaged in my purse and pulled out my phone. "Call him."

  "I'm driving! I'll call him when we get there."

  By the time we arrived, I had a plan. She offered my phone again and I said, "Look, let me go in and call him by myself. I don't want him to feel pressured, okay?"

  She frowned, but said, "Fine. I'll come back in fifteen minutes."

  Since we'd been driving for forty-five minutes, I figured she must have sobered up enough to handle the car. I went up to my room and tried to decide what to do. If she asked him for money or did something weird I'd be humiliated and it might affect his playing, but if I refused to let her see him she'd be devastated.

  Ten minutes later I returned to the lobby to find her waiting.

  "I'm sorry," I said, "he's just too busy."

  She blinked hard twice. "I kind of thought he might be. Well, can you send me an autograph?"

  "Of course," I said, guilt making me over-enthusiastic.

  "Thanks."

  We looked at each other, identical and yet not, then she said, "It was nice to see you," and took off before I could answer.

  *****

  To avoid the media, Forrest and I went to the arena at five, an hour before the other players. He asked about my flight when we met in the lobby, and grimaced when I mentioned my bad ear, but the frost between us hadn't melted.

  "Hey there!"

  I froze.

  "No, you're not seeing double." Pam poked Forrest's arm hard. No doubt meant to be playful, it came off more like an assault. "I'm Tess's twin. She did tell you about me, right?"

  Forrest must have registered the difference in our appearances, but he just said, "Of course. You're Pam."

  She grinned,
and the pure happiness on her face made my heart clench. She hadn't looked that way in a long time. "Yup, that's me. Look, I know you said you don't have time but I figured if I stayed around, maybe you could spare even two minutes?"

  Poor Forrest only took a second to realize what 'you said you don't have time' meant, but in that second his face made it clear I hadn't asked him. He recovered well, but too late.

  Pam stared at me then turned away and faced Forrest. "She's always pretending she doesn't know me," she said, that bright mask from lunch again in full effect. Had she been drinking even more? And why was she still here? "You wouldn't believe what she did to me on Halloween one year. Anyhow, could you do me a favor?"

  Before Forrest could respond, I said, "It's five, Pam, shouldn't you be at work?"

  She snapped her head toward me. "I'll get there eventually. They won't fire me." To Forrest, she said, "Nobody else is stupid enough to work there." She made it sound like a joke but I suspected it was the truth.

  "Anyhow, I was saying," she went on, and I had a horrible moment of envisioning her asking Forrest, technically my boss, for money, before she said, "I hoped you'd give me your autograph, and maybe take a picture with me?"

  "I'd be happy to."

  She hadn't brought anything for him to sign so he grabbed a business card and pen from the front desk, then put his arm around her shoulders while I took their picture with her battered old camera.

  "Take a few, in case it doesn't turn out," she urged, and I did, hating myself for thinking the worst of her.

  She took the camera without looking at me then turned back to Forrest. "Thanks so much. That was really sweet of you. Good luck tonight."

  She kissed him on the cheek, then fled the hotel without looking back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Forrest and I stood in my hotel room after the worst hockey game I'd ever seen. He hadn't scored, hadn't even come close, and the crowd, as he'd feared, had booed him the second he set foot on the ice and hadn't seemed to draw breath the entire night. I'd again half-wished my eardrum would rupture, preferring that to the crowd's taunts ringing in my steadily improving ear.

  Before his post-game massage, Forrest had pulled his MP3 player from his bag and dropped it in front of me. The headphone wires were sawn through, the damage hidden with thick white paint. Though he could easily replace them, this was the first time there'd been permanent destruction, and the escalation frightened me.

  I asked if he knew who'd done it, but he just shook his head. I did his massage without a word, unable to find anything consoling to say, and he didn't speak either. Magnus had asked if we minded finding our own way back to the hotel so the team bus could leave earlier, so we took a taxi, again without talking.

  When Forrest walked me to my room, I assumed he'd leave me at the door, but instead he asked if he could come in. Surprised, I'd agreed.

  After several seconds' uncomfortable silence, he said, "Look, I'll just say it. How I played tonight isn't entirely your fault, but I don't have your full attention these days and I don't like it."

  I fought back defensiveness. "I'm sorry you feel that way. The art's a huge focus, sure, but I put everything aside for your sessions."

  "Everything?"

  The sneer in his tone confused me. "Yes, everything. Why, what are you suggesting?"

  "That there might be something, or I should say someone, else you're thinking about."

  "What, Pam?"

  He shook his head. "How about this? Tell me where you were Sunday night."

  I frowned, even more confused. "Out for dinner with Jen."

  "Where?"

  My chin rose on a wave of annoyance. "That's none of your business."

  He took a step toward me. "Too bad, because I already know. Kegan called on Monday, teasing me you'd gone to see him."

  My annoyance expanded to encompass Kegan. Why would he do that? "You've got to be kidding. I didn't go there because of him."

  "You could have gone anywhere, but you used my name to get in there."

  "Jen hadn't gone--" His words sank in. "Wait, what? I used your name? Where do you get that from? I just called and asked Kegan if we could come."

  "And he only knows you because of me."

  "Yeah, because I happened to go there with you. What's the big deal? I called the guy up and had dinner. It's not like I'm dating him, not that you'd have the right to complain if I did."

  He started to speak but I raised a hand to cut him off, and then regretted it when I wondered what he'd been going to say. Would he care if I dated Kegan? Unable to ask that, I said, "Besides, he lost any interest he might have had in me when he saw Jen."

  Forrest's eyes filled with something like relief, but it vanished before I could be sure and his words held no hint of it. "Jen's a problem, too. She's in your way."

  Picking on my best friend? He'd gone too far. "If you want to talk about someone being in the way," I said, fury raising my voice and blood pressure, "how about the guy who's been so closed off and grumpy this week I couldn't help him even if I massaged him twenty-four hours a day? If anyone's not focusing, it's you."

  "You saying you don't think about anything else while you're working on me?"

  I took a step closer, infuriated by his challenging tone. "Yes! And it's the truth. And whatever's been wrong with you all week is your problem, not mine."

  "Same to you," he snapped. "You've been weird all week, and what else could it be if not Kegan? You've obviously got a crush on him."

  "I have an ear infection," I said, articulating every word clearly. "It was terrible on the plane, and I knew it would be and I came anyhow. I don't care about Kegan and I never did, so don't tell me I'm not doing enough for you because I'm doing everything I can!"

  We glared at each other, then deflated in unison.

  "Why are we fighting?"

  "I don't know." He rubbed his mouth. "I'm sorry. I just hate not being what I want to be."

  "You will be," I said, then added, "I'm the one who won't."

  He frowned. "What do you mean?"

  I took a deep breath and admitted what I'd been trying to deny for days. "The art. I don't have it. I am paying attention in your sessions, but I'm so stressed all the time." I shrugged, helplessness flitting through me. "I hear you. I can't be what I want to be either."

  He put one hand then the other on my shoulders, and we exchanged sad smiles. I wanted a hug so much, needed warmth and comfort, and I'd nearly decided to step forward and make it happen when he drew me in.

  I shut my eyes, pressed my cheek against his chest, and wrapped my arms around his waist, enjoying the strength of his body against mine.

  He stroked my hair with one hand. "We're pathetic, aren't we?"

  "Totally."

  His chuckle was a low rumble in my ear. "You're supposed to say we're not."

  "Sorry. Definitely not."

  "That's better." His soft touch calmed me, and I felt safe and protected.

  Then, with shocking suddenness, I felt desire. My body caught fire and my heart picked up speed as I became so aware of him. The soapy scent of his freshly-washed skin, his breath stirring my hair, every place our bodies touched and all the places I wanted them touching. Knowing I should pull away from him, I instead moved even closer.

  He leaned back to see me, his arms tightening around me, and the hunger in his eyes devoured my resolve to stay professional. One hand gently grazed my cheek, his fingertips sliding along my skin. My eyelids flickered as delicious shivers rippled through me, and he said, wonder in his tone, "God, you're beautiful."

  I turned my head and pressed my mouth against his palm, and he drew his hand achingly slowly across my lips, sending heat rampaging through me. When his last fingertip left my mouth, we moved into each other, no words needed, drawn together too strongly to resist.

  Our first kiss, sweet and delicate, lasted a long time. He held me close, one hand working gently in my hair and the other arm wrapped around my back, and we
savored each other. Lost in the feel of his mouth on mine, I clung to him, not wanting it to end.

  It didn't end. Instead, it became deeper and more passionate without losing the sweetness. He grew hard against me and electricity sparkled through my body at the knowledge of my effect on him. His effect on me? The best I'd ever known, and it just got better and better.

  Until he pulled away.

  "I can't," he said, breathing hard. "I can't do this."

  My own breathing not exactly steady, I stared at him, and he took another step away then turned his back.

  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... I just can't." He moved toward the door, then stopped.

  Was this the first time he'd been with someone since Marika died? Maybe. Should I let him go? I so didn't want to, but I didn't want to hurt him either. I moved to face him, trying to see what he wanted.

  "I should leave," he said, his voice low and intense, roughened by desire, "but I can't make myself go."

  I licked my lips and his eyes locked onto my mouth, sending fire through me again and making it hard to speak. "I don't want you to go."

  "Are you sure?"

  I nodded.

  He stood frozen for another moment, then strode forward and kissed me again.

  Delight filled me, but doubt crowded in too. He felt different in my arms, his mouth felt different on mine. Passionate, delicious, powerful, yes, but he was holding back, not in the kisses themselves but in his emotions. Though he held me tight, his embrace seemed cold now, and the sweetness we'd shared was gone.

  I tried to return to the gentle tenderness we'd had at the beginning to see if we could reconnect, but he just kissed me harder, and I gave in and let myself go with him. Even like this, it felt too good not to.

  He backed us to the bed, kissing me constantly, then undressed me between kisses, his hands and mouth exploring what he exposed with an almost scientific detachment and more skill than I'd ever experienced.

  Increasingly frantic for him, I slid a hand down his flat stomach and beneath the waistband of his pants, thrilling to both the size and hardness of what I found and to his sharp inhale as my fingers closed around him.