Win Big

by Kelly Jamieson

  She meets my eyes, and the air in the kitchen goes electric. My skin tingles everywhere and heat pools in my groin.

  “I think you have a high opinion of yourself.”

  “It’s deserved.” I sound like a jerk. Whatever.

  The air crackles around us and heat weighs down on me. All I can think of is proving her wrong—carrying her back upstairs to that pretty, pristine bedroom and messing it up. Messing her up. Pretty, perfect Everly.

  Her lips part, and her fingers tighten on the mug. Her eyes are bright, pupils dilated.

  She wants it too.

  Chapter 7

  Everly

  It’s true.

  I like older men. For the reasons I just said. I like maturity. I like someone like me, who’s responsible and accomplished and…Christ, I’m a big phony.

  I act responsible and accomplished. I act mature and strong and organized. I try to be perfect.

  Inside I’m a mess. A complete and utter disaster.

  The last person I want to know that is Wyatt.

  And he’s the last person I’d ever want to be involved with. He’s messy. He’s all laughter and fun and flirty and unreliable. He wasn’t even going to come to the banquet! Life’s just a game for him, and he plays a game for a living, so that says a lot about him.

  And yet…dammit, I’m drawn to him so powerfully it’s hard to resist. He makes me smile. He pisses me off…but even that makes me smile. He’s just so…so…Wyatt.

  He has an aura; a golden, glowing aura. He effortlessly attracts people. I’m no exception.

  Right now, my thighs are squeezed tightly together against the persistent ache low inside me, and my nipples are hard little points.

  My fingers tighten around my nearly empty coffee mug. “Cocky,” I murmur, then gulp down the rest of my brew. “I need more coffee. Want some?” I stand abruptly.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  I bet he is.

  I nearly groan as I hustle across the kitchen to refill my mug. I take advantage of the moment with my back to him to close my eyes and inhale deeply.

  “These eggs are perfect,” he comments. “Sunny-side up can be hard to pull off. Sometimes the white is too runny. And you didn’t break the yolks.”

  “Thanks.” I fill my mug. “It’s not that hard, though.”

  I’m pretty sure he mutters, “Oh yes it is.”

  Well, good. We’re in the same damn boat here, floating around in an ocean of sexual frustration.

  I lift my chin and return to the table.

  I finish off my egg whites, which are crispy and brown. I know it’s weird, but that’s how I like them. I pick up my last piece of bacon.

  “Perfect bacon too,” Wyatt says. “Just the right level of crispy. You’re pretty much perfect at everything, aren’t you?”

  I stare at him. If he only knew. Then I shake my hair back. “Yes.”

  He laughs. “What are your plans today?”

  I sigh. “I’m going shopping with my mother.”

  “Why do you sound so put upon by that? I thought all women like shopping.”

  “I love shopping.” I hesitate. He’s not one of the family; in fact, he works for the family, sort of. I shouldn’t talk to him about private family stuff. But the feud isn’t exactly secret. It’s been well covered in the media. “It’s a pretext for getting her alone to talk to her about why my half brothers are suing my dad.”

  “Oh.” He makes a face. “You don’t know why?”

  I shake my head, chewing my bacon. “None of us know, and the whole family feud is pissing us off.”

  “Huh.” He tips his head to one side. “Let me guess—you’re the leader of this investigation?”

  “How did you know?” I roll my eyes. “But I was put in charge—I didn’t start it.”

  He grins. “Okay.”

  “I’m sure my mom knows more than she lets on.” I nibble my bottom lip and then I confess something I don’t mean to. “I’m kind of worried about Dad.”

  His gaze sharpens. “How so?”

  I shake my head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “To me,” he adds.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I get it. But I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. And I’m a good listener.”

  “You could take advantage of my father’s weaknesses. What happens when it comes time to negotiate your next contract?”

  “Your father doesn’t negotiate contracts,” he points out evenly. “And you know that. Théo’s in charge now, and he’s not about to let anyone take advantage. He’s probably the smartest guy I know.”

  I purse my lips.

  “After all, he traded Patrick for me.”

  I smile reluctantly. “True.”

  Wyatt glances over at the coffeemaker. “Okay, now I need a refill.” He rises and pads across the room with athletic grace. He’s wearing his black dress pants and the white shirt, open at the neck, cuffs rolled up on strong forearms, the tails out. The shirt is fitted to his impressive body, emphasizing his broad shoulders and chest, narrow waist and flat abs.

  Which I saw shirtless not that long ago. Impressive is right.

  He returns and lounges back in his chair with his mug, his empty plate pushed aside with knife and fork sitting at exactly four o’clock, as my mother taught me to do when I finish eating.

  “What’s your family like?” I ask impulsively.

  I already know he’s from New Brunswick, in Canada. I know he was drafted by Detroit and got traded to the Condors last year. I know he plays defense; I know his hockey stats; and I know the things the hockey blogs say about him, including the ones that post about “hockey heartthrobs” and “players who are hot as puck.”

  He smiles. “My family’s great. Mom, Dad, little sister.”

  “How little?”

  “She’s twenty-four.”

  “That’s not that little.”

  “I guess not, but she’ll always be my little sister.”

  “I bet you were an annoying big brother.”

  “Nah. She worships me.”

  I laugh. “Is she an athlete too?”

  “She’s athletic, but not a professional athlete. She’s actually a fantastic tennis player.”

  “Really. Do you play tennis?”

  “Of course. She had to have someone to beat up on the court.”

  Knowing him, he’s probably a great tennis player. “Where did you grow up?”

  “St. John, New Brunswick. In Canada.”

  “I know where New Brunswick is.”

  “Sorry. Lots of people don’t. I’m used to always adding ‘Canada.’ ”

  “I was born here, but I’ve visited Canada quite a bit. We used to go visit Matt in Quebec and Mark in Winnipeg. What’s New Brunswick like? It’s on the east coast, right?”

  “Yep. It’s beautiful—lots of rivers and pine forests, and it’s right on the Bay of Fundy. You can see icebergs, and whales, and puffins.”

  “Cool. That sounds amazing.”

  “There’s also a lot of history there. The Cabot Tower commemorates the four hundredth anniversary of John Cabot discovering Newfoundland.”

  I nod, entranced with the idea of whales and icebergs. “I’ve gone whale watching here, of course, but we don’t have ice.”

  He smiles. “Nope.”

  “So you grew up in a normal family in a maritime city of…how many people?”

  “About seventy thousand.”

  “That’s small.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did you start playing hockey?”

  “Jeez, I don’t even remember. Probably when I could walk. Everyone skated and played hockey in the winter. When I was sixteen, I moved to Rimouski, Quebec, to play there.”


  I nod. “And that’s where you got drafted from.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you learn to speak French living in Quebec?”

  His grin is lopsided. “I learned some, but my French is terrible.”

  “I loved visiting Quebec. It’s so…old…and European. Matthew’s wife is French, and Théo and JP grew up there.”

  “Yeah.” He pauses. “Are we done with the detour into my family life to distract from yours?”

  My lips pucker up as I try not to smile. “You’re on to me.”

  “I wish.” His eyes make contact with mine in a meaningful way and he leans forward a little. “Believe me.”

  I can’t breathe. Once again, warmth curls through me. “You’re a shameless flirt. Okay, I’m worried about my dad because…” Crap. I’m actually afraid to say it out loud. But it’s been weighing on my mind for months now and I’ve never said a word about it to anyone. Not even Mom, or Asher, Harrison, and Noah. “He keeps forgetting things.”

  Wyatt’s eyes shadow. “Yeah?”

  I nod slowly, teeth sunk into my bottom lip. “It scares me.”

  “He’s what…seventy-two?”

  “Yes. But he’s still so physically fit. He even works out! What if…what if he has some kind of dementia?”

  Wyatt shifts his chair, actually moving it closer to me. He reaches out to cover my hand, curving his fingers around it. His hand is warm and strong. Reassuring. “I don’t know much about dementia. Knowing you, you’ve probably googled it and studied everything about it.”

  I make an exasperated little sound with my tongue. “You think you know me so well.”

  He’s right, though. I have. And it terrifies me.

  Also, Wyatt Bell knowing me that well terrifies me. Because there are things I don’t want anyone to know, let alone him.

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  He picks up my hand and rubs his thumb over my skin. My arm feels heavy. So do my breasts.

  “Have you talked to him about it?” he asks.

  “God no!”

  “Why not? I mean, I know he can be intimidating, but you’re his daughter.”

  “That makes him even more scary,” I mutter. “I’m going to try to suss things out with my mom this afternoon.”

  “I know there’s no cure for dementia. But I think there are some kinds of treatment that help slow it down. But you have to see a doctor for that.”

  “Maybe he has.” I lift my eyes and fasten them onto Wyatt’s face. His eyes are warm and steady. His mouth is beautiful. Wyatt may be the life of the party with not much beneath that, but one thing he never does is judge people. I want to tell him everything and let him be there for me.

  “Maybe,” he agrees. “It could be just normal aging. But if you’re concerned about it, you need to talk to your parents.”

  Again, he’s right. “I’m afraid to,” I confess.

  “I get it. Our parents getting older is hard.”

  “How old are your parents?”

  “They’re both fifty-five.”

  “Young.” I sigh. “My mom’s fifty-two.”

  He nods.

  The air in the room has become heavy. And then Wyatt releases my hand, leans back, and says, “Well, the good thing about having a bad memory is that jokes are funny more than once.”

  I snort out a reluctant laugh.

  “And he can plan his own surprise party.”

  “Oh my God! You’re terrible.”

  He lifts a big shoulder. “Yep. Come on. Life is short. You gotta laugh before it’s too late.”

  I gaze at him. He has a point. But it irritates me. Life isn’t all fun and games. What made me think this guy would be there for me if I spilled my guts? “But if all you do is laugh, nothing ever gets done.” I shove back my chair and grab my plate. I reach for his too, but he picks it up and follows me as I stomp over to the dishwasher.

  The atmosphere has changed. He made a joke. I didn’t laugh.

  Now I’m annoyed at myself, but it’s too late.

  * * *

  —

  Mom and I have shopped for a couple of hours at the Brentwood Country Mart. Despite its cute country name and appearance, it’s home to a lot of high-end shops. We picked up some sweet things—Mom, a gorgeous pair of Louboutin sandals; me, my favorite Deep Blue Ocean candles, some pretty office supplies, and a new jacket. We gossip about people who’d been at the banquet last night. Then we decide it’s time for a late lunch and we head to Pacifico, an elegant little eatery in the mall.

  With our bags and purses settled beneath the table, we relax in comfy upholstered chairs and order cocktails. Mom loves a good martini and I feel like a Bellini. It’s cold and delicious.

  Now to bring the conversation around to Dad.

  Mom’s perusing her menu. “That salmon we had last night was amazing,” she says. “Dad and I are going to that restaurant next week.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bambino. The chef is Michael Bianchi.”

  I nod. “There was so much good food there.”

  “People couldn’t stop talking about it.” Mom smiles at me over the menu. “Another success.”

  “Thank you.” My insides warm. Hearing words of praise from my parents always makes me happy. And relieved. Will I ever get over that?

  What would happen if I failed at something? I don’t even like to think about it because I’ve experienced their disappointment in me, and I never want to be there again.

  We both order salads.

  “Did Dad have a good time last night?” I pick up my Bellini.

  “Yes, of course. He loves socializing with hockey people.”

  “Because he’s the king.” I smile.

  “True.”

  “Did he remember everyone’s names?”

  Mom tilts her head, a little crease between her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “That’s an odd question,” she says slowly.

  I sigh. I’m not good at subtle, I guess. “He’s been forgetting people’s names a lot lately. Even people who work for the team.”

  I can immediately tell that Mom knows exactly what I’m talking about. Her smile disappears, her eyes shadow, and her shoulders slump a tiny bit.

  “He forgets other things,” I continue, my voice quavering with emotion. “But he’s really good at covering it up.”

  She nods slowly. “I’ve tried to get him to go to the doctor, but he refuses to admit he’s having problems.”

  “Oh God.” I squeeze my eyes shut briefly. Mom just admitted it. He’s having problems. She’s worried too. “He needs to go to the doctor.”

  “You want to try to convince him?” Her voice is dry. “Good luck with that. You know your father.”

  “Yes.” I blow out a long exhalation. “Is that why you’re spending so much time at the office?”

  She looks up at me, her lips parted. “You’ve noticed that.”

  “Not just me. Théo too.”

  “Hell.”

  “Mom.” I lean forward. “What’s going on between Mark and Matthew and Dad? I think Théo suspects you’re at the office so much because you’re stealing money from the team, or something.”

  Her jaw drops. Then she snaps it shut, her forehead pinched. “That’s bullshit.”

  I grin. Mom projects the image of a meek little trophy wife dressed in designer clothes and shoes, always perfectly made up. But I know the real her. “I know it is.”

  “They’ve always thought that about me,” she says, relaxing. She could sound bitter about it, but she doesn’t. “I know it. They think I married your father for his money. And that I helped him steal money from Mark and Matthew.”

  I throw subtlety to the wind. “Did you?” I hold her gaze.

 
“No.”

  I nod. I believe her. “Did Dad?”

  Her lips thin. “I’m not talking about this to you.”

  “Why not?” I straighten my spine. “It’s my family too, and I hate all this stupid crap. If Dad didn’t steal their money, just tell me so.”

  She says nothing.

  “I take it that he did.” My head drops forward, my stomach clenching. Fucking hell. I did not want this confirmed.

  “I said I’m not talking about it.” Mom’s tone is firm, like it was many times I wanted something I couldn’t have.

  The server arrives with our salads and she immediately beams a smile at him. I ordered a fattoush salad, lots of chopped greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, chicken, and crisp, fresh pita chips. Mom’s salad has chickpeas and roasted eggplant.

  The server refills our water glasses and I pick up my fork, no longer hungry.

  “I want to know what’s going on,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken. “I want it over.”

  “It will be.”

  I give her a slitty-eyed look. “When? How?”

  “Never mind. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  A million thoughts are running through my mind. Mom knows about it. It seems like she’s…trying to fix things? Curiosity burns a hole in my gut, but I know pushing her won’t go well.

  “Why can’t you tell us? All of us. We deserve to know the truth. Have you talked to Matthew and Mark?”

  “No.” Her mouth is a firm line again.

  “Oh my God. Mom!”

  She gives me a quelling mom look that I’m well familiar with. “You left the banquet quickly last night. I saw you leaving with Wyatt Bell.” She arches an eyebrow.

  Oh sure, change the conversation to a subject I don’t want to talk about. “I wasn’t feeling well. He gave me a ride home.”

  “That’s nice of him.” She runs her tongue over her teeth, lips closed. “He, uh, doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “Phhht. That’s for sure.” I roll my eyes, tamping down the memories of kissing him and how hot it was and what a gorgeous man he is and how he irritates me but makes me laugh. “He’s nothing but a vagina hunter.”

  Mom chokes. “What? Oh, my word.”

  I grin and shrug.