by Olivia Luck
Point of No Return
Dedication
Prologue—His
Prologue—Hers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Coming Soon
An Excerpt from Pressure Point, Stella and Blake’s Story
Also by Olivia Luck
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Point of No Return
Copyright © 2015 by Olivia Luck
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978–1511466615
ISBN-10: 1511466618
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Jenny Sims
Formatting by Perfectly Publishable
Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs
To my beta readers—I am forever thankful for your time, wisdom and words.
HIS
We cruise through Standard like we own the place because, fuck it, we practically do. Three first-line players and the goalie from the Chicago Scrapers, the city’s only professional hockey team, are kings in this town. When Lars swaggered to the host stand at a restaurant known for only allowing reservations three months out and requested a table, the verbose host seated us without delay. Now circling the wood table and waiting for our steaks to arrive, my teammates and I survey the dimly lit dining room.
“Bar 312 tonight, gentlemen,” Tomas drawls after swallowing a mouthful of the whiskey I got him drinking when we played together in Toronto a few years back.
None of us are attached, spending most nights out of the hockey rink together making our way through the city’s most popular haunts. We’re free to do what we want, when we want, so long as it doesn’t conflict with our job.
“Weren’t we there over the weekend? Could get stale,” I say.
I dangle a tumbler of amber liquid in my hand, watching Standard’s host make his rounds among the clientele. His name’s Paul? Patrick? Something like that. Considering I’ve been to Standard no less than eight times, you’d think I’d know the name of the gatekeeper who runs this place.
“Doesn’t matter when we went there last; the place is wall-to-wall beautiful women. Are you looking for something else? Boystown’s up north, dude,” Tucker goads from my left.
“What was that, rookie?” With a half smirk, I don’t offer Tucker any further attention. Drafted for the incoming season, Coach asked me to take the hotshot rightwing under my tutelage. Responsibilities like this are expected of the assistant captain.
I don’t hear whatever Tucker says in response because something else has captured my attention.
Dark auburn hair curling around slim shoulders like a heavy curtain, thick eyelashes framing deep blue eyes filled with. . . . tears? Milky white hands press to cheeks with a dusky blush, mouth open in surprise.
Fuck me. She’s stunning.
Before I can come up with a game plan to get this woman into bed, a single tear catches the candlelight and glimmers on her cheek, jerking me back to reality. It’s then that I realize there’s a man on bended knee before her.
Only a few feet away on the hardwood floor, I’m able to make out his words. “Violet Harper, will you be my wife?” The dull roar of conversation, both at my table and winding throughout the restaurant, prevents me from hearing her response, but I’m able to read her lips well enough.
Me? she asks, surprise apparent across her gorgeous features.
The guy would be an idiot not to lock her down. She has that doe-eyed innocent look, but plump lips and a hint of cleavage that would knock any man right on his ass.
“There’s no one better than you, Violet,” the guy says. He hooks an arm around her tiny waist and yanks her onto his bended knee. Slim arms circle his neck as she stares down at him adoringly.
Do I want to be a one-woman man like that?
As quickly as the thought appears in my mind, I shove it away. Feeling like a voyeur, I attempt to turn my attention back to my teammates. But like being caught in the pull of a powerful magnet, my gaze powerlessly slides back to the couple.
“Put me out of my misery, babe. Say yes?” The guy actually looks nervous. Her answer is obvious, but she gushes out her assent. The guy launches to his feet with her still in his arms, locking her lips on his.
She never looked at the ring.
The majority of the women I hook up with want one thing: status. That means money or power—whatever I’ve got as one of the league’s best goalies. I’ll admit it, I’ve become a shred jaded, believing most women care more about my bank account and fame than the man I am. And now, here, to my surprise, a goddess looks more interested in the man than the sparkling stone in the velvet box tossed carelessly on the white tablecloth.
“Cam, are you listening?”
Shifting around in my seat, I focus on my friends. “Got to let the hens gossip,” I mutter. They’re passing around potatoes and mushrooms. Not even the scent of the broiled salmon (yeah, I’m in season and eating like my trainer wants to stay at the peak of my game) managed to distract me from the engagement going on a few feet from our table.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? Let’s all raise our glasses in a toast to one of Chicago’s finest. My boy, Max, a firefighter for you fine folks, just got engaged to his lovely girlfriend, Violet.” The host, whose name still escapes me, booms to every patron of Standard and cuts through our conversation. Now at least I have an excuse to stare at the woman. Violet. I savor her name, letting it roll around the deep recesses of my mind. I’d never go after a taken woman, but I can’t help but watch her with appreciation as she blushes, pressing her cheek into the neck of the firefighter boyfriend. Excuse me, fiancé.
Blowing away a hot breath, I force my head away from the scene. There’s a chant building steam, kiss, kiss, kiss, and I’m not willing to watch that. By now, the guys aren’t interested in razzing me further; they’re watching too, though not with the same rapt attention as me.
“Don’t you want to see the ring?” Firefighter says.
“Oh! That. I was lucky enough to have you,” her melodic voice responds.
Only then do I realize my hand is clenched in a fist on the tabletop, the tension bleaching my knuckles.
“Sucker,” Tucker mutters under his breath.
“Really? Seems pretty thrilled to me.” With a decisive slice from my cutlery, I swallow a bite of my fish.
Yeah, maybe I’ll settle down one day.
But not today.
HERS
When my husband works overnights at the fire station, I sleep on his side of the bed. Max doesn’t know that. Even though he spends more nights in our bed than out of it, I miss him enough to burrow in the sheets that emanate the remnants of his aftershave. I feel cocooned in his arms even when he’s not around. Sleep comes easier over here.
That’s where I am, tucked underneath the down cover, safe in a dreamless slumber, when a pounding rouses me. My heart leaps in surprise and I launch into a seated position, hand hovering over my chest. With a blind hand, I feel along the bedside table to find my glasses and jam them onto my nose. Knuckle pounding against wood doesn’t cease when I capture the time.
Nothing good can come of someone knocking on your door at one in the morning.
I scoot off the bed and shrug into the lightweight robe that lies on my husband’s suit valet.
He hates it when I leave my things there, I think numbly. Somehow, my body’s moving forward, even though every nerve ending screams for me to crawl back into bed and pretend this is a dream. It’s almost as if I know the Grim Reaper lurks on the other side of that door. I imagine a black hooded robe and bony skeletal fingers clutching a scythe waiting for me.
If there were enough time, I’d bargain with him. Beg to replace my life for his. Give up everything I have on God’s green earth for the man who gave me the gift of a full, flourishing life.
A knock on the door means it’s too late for brokering. If a ringing phone yanked me from sleep, it wouldn’t be this daunting. The fear wouldn’t be overpowering all of my other senses.
With a quivering hand, I flip on a light switch and unlatch the lock on our front door.
Their faces are grim, solemn. Hot tears blur my vision before I can identify who has come to deliver the news. Even before they speak, a strangled cry rips from my throat and my knees buckle. Like a puppet cut from its strings, I collapse to the floor. Strong arms catch me, encircling my waist, squeezing me tight.
The pressure of this man’s arms around me is the only thing reminding me that I’m still alive and not thrust into the depths of hell.
“Violet.”
“Don’t say it,” I shriek. A feral cat stole my voice box, the howls ripping from my body completely unlike any other sound I’ve ever made.
“Violet.” This time the stern voice fights through the tornado of emotion and I blink hazily upward.
“Felix,” I whisper through a dry, cracked throat. Soot and ash still mar his cheeks, hair disheveled in every which way. Weariness seeps off him—from the slump in his shoulders to the exhaustion in his eyes.
“We lost him. I’m so sorry. We lost him.”
I don’t remember much of anything after that.
Violet
There is a process to grief. Five steps (or was it stages?) of mourning, or some malarkey like that. Okay, I’m being unfair. Even though I sometimes act like the bereavement process doesn’t apply to me, I wandered through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance just as the psychologists predicted.
All those pamphlets and websites that share knowledge are great for students who are studying the process and even for the grievers themselves. But for the twenty-seven-year-old widow, the stages of grief fall short. My decimated heart needs more than a support group or a pamphlet. I have no idea what I need to feel like myself again. Ever since that night I found out Max was gone, I’ve been a shadow: a colorless, rough outline of the person I once was.
Staring into the medicine cabinet mirror, I study the sweep of pale skin across my cheeks, my oversized blue eyes, petite nose, and wide mouth. Sure, I look the same enough. Though if it hadn’t been for Felix, I might be gaunt, often forgetting to eat because food lost meaning without Max. Hunger became an afterthought and . . . well, yeah, I guess my friend forced me to exist.
Felix made sure I ate. Felix made sure I showered. Felix made sure I slept. He held my hair back when I retched over the toilet and wiped the sweat from my brow line when I lay in bed feverish from the emotional toll.
A year after losing Max, that type of behavior is no longer acceptable. Despite sleepless nights and mornings when I wonder how I can possibly drag myself out of bed, I keep going. The alternative is too scary to consider.
Somewhere in the bedroom, my cell phone starts singing about another one biting the dust. Rolling my eyes at the tune Felix programmed for my incoming calls, I grab the device off my bed.
“What’s up, Dominic?”
“You’re still coming, right?” Max’s twin brother demands with little finesse. The man’s not known for his gentle nature. He’s brutish and rough around the edges. Exactly the opposite of how his identical brother was.
A sigh desperately wants to escape my lips, but I know the noise would set Dominic off. He’d think I’m ungrateful for his help. Truly, I am glad he pestered me about this job with the Chicago Scrapers, the professional hockey team where he works in player development.
“Yes, of course. I’m leaving now.” Not really the truth, but my make-up is in place and my shirt is without creases. All I need is my bag and I can be out the door in less than two minutes.
“We’ll have lunch with Blake before the meeting.”
“Okay,” I agree. Blake Campbell is my best friend’s boyfriend, and conveniently, the president-slash-owner of the Scrapers. Actually, it’s a bit tangled when I get down to thinking about it. Stella, the aforementioned best friend, works in operations for the Scrapers, and she’s Dominic’s first cousin. After Max died . . . Well, I wasn’t the only one who took it rough. A job magically opened in the Scrapers organization and Dom relocated from Vancouver to Chicago.
“How are you getting here?” Dominic quizzes.
“Bus.”
“Is that safe? Take a cab, and I’ll reimburse you.”
I bristle at his tone, and this time I can’t hide my annoyed sigh. The overprotective vibe radiating through the phone is completely unnecessary. For a while, I was unable to do things on my own, but I’m better now. Trying to be, at least. “It’s a straight shot up Madison and it’s not even noon. See you soon.” Without waiting for a response, I hang up. For someone who never took a shine to me when I dated or married his brother, Dominic is way too interested in my daily activities. I don’t understand why he feels it’s necessary to be invested in my life this way.
The black oversized blazer still fits almost a year after I bought it. In early October, the weather’s still pleasant, so I don’t need another warmer jacket. My feet fit into the black, pointy pumps, and a yellow tote bag slides onto my shoulder. Black cigarette pants, an untucked white collared shirt, and a skinny, waist-defining black belt finish the outfit. It’s almost as if I’ve been going to work for the past twelve months, not quitting my job and living in leggings and baggy chambray shirts. One more look in the mirror hanging next to the front door, and I confirm that I remember how to put myself together in a professional ensemble.
I don’t wait long for the bus, and it’s a quick, bumpy ride to the Scrapers’ training facility. The giant glass structure has an Olympic worthy training facility, ice rink, and houses the Scrapers’ corporate office. I reach up to yank the notification string alerting the driver to stop the bus, and it comes to a jerky stop in front of the building. For a moment, I entertain the thought of skipping this meeting and riding the bus as far as it goes. No one will miss me. They’ll find someone else to plan the Scrapers’ charity gala. There’s still some money in my savings account. I can go on without a job for a little while longer . . .
No. I command my legs to step out of the bus, cross the patch of sidewalk, and walk through the entrance as though I’m not afraid of committing to a job. Do I even remember how to plan a party? Of course, you do, it’s in your bones. I think back to the church picnics I organized for my dad’s congregation, the BINGO nights, and the prom night at the local nursing home. That life seems worlds away, but it’s true, I started commandeeri
ng events when I was just barely in high school.
“Hey, you made it.”
Every time I see Dominic, the physical reaction is the same: a proverbial punch to the gut. Yes, he buzzed off all of his midnight black hair, but the features are entirely too similar to my Max. What do you expect? They’re identical twins. Mentally shaking my head, I brush off the resemblance. At some point, I have to stop my reaction to seeing Dom. He is not my Max.
“In one piece,” I say, accepting his swift hug. Another reminder that this isn’t the man I married. Max carried the smell of smoke everywhere he went, even if he hadn’t battled a fire recently. Instinctively, I reach for my ring finger, only to find naked skin.
Stop doing that, I tell myself furiously. The ring has been gone since the funeral, like most reminders of Max. No matter what I do, the habits of a married woman won’t go away. I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“Where are we going to eat?” I ask my former brother-in-law. How weird is that? We’re not family anymore. By the way Dominic ostracized me in the past, you’d know he never liked me. And yet, here I am pretending that we get along all in the name of a job.
Dominic’s already lost interest in me. He’s reading an email or something on his phone then typing a response while I stand next to him uncertainly. Without a job, I’m kind of a dud with no one looking for me or wanting my professional insight. You’re trying. Today is the first day of your life as an independent event planner.
Dom and Stella tag-teamed their effort to force me into this job. They showed up at my place and literally handed me a pros and cons list to applying for this position. Oh, and there were no cons. The Scrapers need an event planner to work with the public relations team for their annual charity gala. After this meeting, which Stella assured me was only a technicality, I’ll have four months to put together a three hundred person party.
In my former life, this type of project got my blood racing in excitement. I thrived under this pressure. Today, I’m quaking in my stilettos.