by G. K. Brady
.~ * * * ~.
Paige gathered portfolio, phone, and blueprints and exited her Tacoma. She punched the garage door button with her chin and shouldered her way through the door into her kitchen, then wound a path to her home office, where she dropped everything on her overloaded desk. God, she loved this house. She’d remodeled it and fallen in love with it. Adrian didn’t love it, but that didn’t matter to her as much as it should have. After all, he was barely there.
Her office faced the large front windows, sparkling with natural light. Katie, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, swiveled in her chair behind another desk and waved, her dark ponytail bobbing.
Paige shrugged out of her parka and dragged off her fur boots as Katie hung up.
“That was Norm,” Katie announced.
Paige perked up. “And? Did the electrical inspector come by?”
A sigh. “Yeah. And he failed us again.”
“What? Why? We did everything according to his specs.”
“I know. That’s what Norm said, only not as nicely as you. And there’s more. This inspector failed the roof.”
“How? He’s an electrical inspector! The roof inspector signed off on it last week.”
Katie nodded, her big brown eyes sympathetic behind her red-framed glasses. “I know. Norm pointed that out to him, but he said the roof needs more vents—even though it’s to code—and that until he sees them, he’s not passing the electrical.”
“That’s totally jacked up!”
Another nod. “Yeah, it is. Norm’ll call back and go over all this with you.”
Paige’s phone buzzed, sounding like an angry bee on her desk. She looked at the screen and silenced it. “Adrian,” she mumbled in answer to Katie’s quizzical expression.
“Ah. You guys fighting?”
“We don’t fight. We’re not together enough to fight. I just … I’m just worn out right now. I need a Red Bull or another cup of coffee and a better attitude when I talk to him. Maybe all three.”
Little had changed these last few months, except their bond had grown more brittle. Adrian had been gone more than he’d been home, consumed with a huge project in England, and Paige had plenty of time to turn over the same questions: Shouldn’t absence have fueled unbridled passion of the base, animal sort when he did come home, leading to locking of doors and shredding of clothing? Did wanting her husband make her a freak? Was she still desirable?
“When’s he due back?” asked Katie.
“Uh, Wednesday or Thursday, I think. I’m not sure.” And when he gets back, by God, his sultry wife will serve him a succulent dinner—and herself—in her most provocative lingerie and enflame him to do unspeakable things to her body.
Katie pressed her lips together as if to keep a thought in check. “So how did it go? Did you meet any hot hockey studs?”
Paige snapped to attention.
Katie waggled her eyebrows. “Oh, so you did! Who’d you meet?”
Paige began sorting through a stack of papers, not really seeing any of it. Only a pair of mocking ice-blue eyes. “Um, Beckett Miller.”
“Oh. My. GOD!” Katie shrieked. Paige recoiled. “You didn’t! Did you kiss him? Offer to bear his children? Let me touch you!”
Katie jumped up and grabbed Paige’s hand, breathed out a swoony sigh, then danced in place, giving a convincing performance as a preadolescent.
“You met Denver’s most eligible bachelor!” Katie gushed, then ran back to her desk and began rummaging through a drawer.
“I’m not sure he’s so eligible,” Paige offered. “His social life seems pretty full.”
“Why? Does he have a new girlfriend? He’ll be done with her in a week. Then maybe I can be his girlfriend.” She whirled, fanning through a 5280 magazine, the monthly for Denver’s discerning hip crowd, of which Paige was definitely not a part.
“For a week.” scoffed Paige. “There’s a good reason they don’t last. The guy is a class-one a-hole.”
Katie flattened the magazine wide on Paige’s desk and pointed to a glossy full-page picture of a striking, tousle-haired man in blue jeans and white T-shirt, casually leaning against a huge pine tree, beefy arms folded across his chest. Paige would have recognized that smile anywhere—the one that could soften the grumpiest Grinch. Look up “charm” in the dictionary, and there’s his picture. On the facing page were five words in black bold-faced print: Down Home with Beckett Miller.
“Look at that face! How can he be an a-hole?” Katie flipped the page before Paige could reach for it. “And look at that body! He might be the world’s biggest jerk, but who cares? All I care about is taking those off.” She pointed to a black-and-white half-page ad for men’s underwear, featuring Beckett Miller reclining on his side sans the smile and most everything else.
Strands of light-streaked hair screened one eye. The other had been touched up in blue. They’re a little lighter than that. From his chiseled face, Paige’s eyes wandered over muscular biceps and forearms, a carved chest, and an impossibly sculpted six-pack; here, they lingered. Is that touched up too? She darted a quick peek over his flat belly button to a fine dark line that shot below low-slung, too-tight briefs. The look on his face was intense, predatory—and sexy. Paige tried not to gawk.
“See? See?” shouted Katie. “Leaves you speechless, right? Have you ever seen anything so gorgeous and so … male? Testosterone practically drips off the page.”
Paige quickly flipped to another picture of a sweaty Beckett Miller—in color, sporting a scowl and a white Blizzard jersey stitched with the number twenty—leaning on the blade of a hockey stick. Below the picture were a few stats: born Houghton, MI, August 11, 1985; height, six-three; weight, 225. Yep, that’s Adonis, er, Beckett Miller.
Beside it was another picture of a coolly smiling, tuxedoed Beckett Miller standing on a red carpet surrounded by scads of people behind velvet ropes. Hugging his bicep possessively was a dark-eyed, leggy woman in a glittering white gown that dove to her navel, exposing nearly every square inch of her breasts. How do they do that? Glue? Olive-skinned and nearly his height, she exuded a regal air. Wow. He’s certainly upgraded since DU.
“Who is she?” Paige pointed at the beauty.
“Yamila Hesham,” Katie shrugged. “He was engaged to her for about a minute.”
“And her?” Paige pointed to a different picture of Beckett leaning against a vintage blue-and-white Corvette convertible beside a different—though equally dark, equally sleek—woman.
“That’s Asha Cain, the heiress; he dated her last year. They went to polo games, rich people stuff like that,” Katie offered. “He makes the rounds with all the beautiful, high-class celebrities. Which isn’t surprising given he owns a mansion in Cherry Hills Village with garage space for twelve cars, a multi-million-dollar spread in LA, a restaurant, a winery, God knows what else, and makes a gazillion dollars.”
Paige swiveled her head to her assistant. “How are you such an expert?”
“He’s my future husband, so naturally I gather intel.” Katie returned to the same drawer and pulled out three more magazines, which she dropped on top of 5280. One was called Celebrities USA. The cover featured Beckett Miller wearing an open, faded blue denim shirt that offered a peek at his chest and abs, and jeans with the top button undone. The caption read, “Can Hockey’s Bad Boy be Tamed?”
Not likely.
Katie, the future ex-Mrs. Beckett Miller, piped up, “He was a runner-up for Sexiest Man Alive two years ago. I hear he slept with one of the judges, and that pissed off the other judges, so he lost out.”
“With all your ‘intel-gathering,’ you must know about his other bad behavior. I’m talking about the girl who OD’d.”
Katie flapped a hand in the air. “They couldn’t prove anything.”
“But he was the only one there!”
“How do they know? He’d been partying with a bar full of women before that.” Katie’s chin firmed.
“And you want to date someone li
ke that? I thought you had better taste—and higher standards,” Paige snorted.
Katie sighed, batted her eyes, and darted them to the ceiling. “He’s pretty near perfect. He just needs the love of a good woman to set him straight.”
“Yeah, right. The love dump is littered with the broken hearts of women who have said—and believed—those same words. Just ask his ex-lovers and ex-fiancées.”
“He only has one ex-fiancée,” Katie sniffed. “And she was all wrong for him. So introduce me!”
“I don’t know him!” Paige lied, but only a little. She didn’t know him, and he certainly hadn’t recognized her. “And even if I did, no way! Besides, neither of us is his type. Look at these women,” Paige said as she flipped through pages with endless pictures of Beckett Miller and tall, glossy goddesses. “We’re too short, too round, too old.”
“You’re not round. You’re curvy.”
“Yeah, and nothing like those six-foot-tall Amazons who probably can’t buy a drink legally. Wait! Why are we talking about me? He’s your dream lover.”
“Yes, but you know him now. I can live vicariously through you.”
“I don’t know him! You have this all worked out, but you’re overlooking one very important roadblock to this delusional romance. Actually, three. I’m married, I’m in love with my husband, and I don’t like Beckett Miller.”
CHAPTER 5
Can’t Find My Way Home
When Beckett re-entered Coach’s office an hour later, Paige Paulson had been replaced by Peter Gillaspie, the team’s general manager. Even with Ms. Paulson’s sharp tongue, this was a poor bargain because as asses went, hers was much easier on the eye than Gillaspie’s. But then, what wasn’t nicer to look at than the GM’s sorry, bony butt? And right now? Beckett would rather be anywhere but here with Coach and Gillaspie. This was not going to turn out well. He braced himself.
“Have a seat, Miller,” Gillaspie instructed. Really bad.
Beckett sat—more like perched—and nodded to both men.
Coach leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. He gave Beckett a sympathetic smile. So bad. I am so fucked. God, I hope they didn’t trade me to the Islanders.
“Miller, I’ll come right to the point.” Gillaspie’s face was expressionless. “It’s no secret you haven’t been the same since Minneapolis. The numbers don’t lie. You’re headed for a sixteen-point season, and you got most of those before Minneapolis. Your plus-minus is minus thirty-seven. When we got you, we expected consistency—your average of forty points and a plus-minus well in positive territory. Not this shit.” Gillaspie pulled in a breath.
Here it comes.
“We’ve decided it would be best for the team if we put you on waivers. We’ll announce tomorrow. If another team doesn’t claim you, you’ll be sent down to the AHL.”
“Wha—” This is so much worse than being traded to the Islanders.
Beckett’s chest compressed as though Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson had him in a vice grip. He wanted to say, “I’m still that tough-nosed, stay-at-home defensemen who can put up fifty points a year!” He also wanted to say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” but he’d said it so many times that it sounded hollow, flat, and it hadn’t helped in any case. Hadn’t helped the girl, her family, or her fiancé. Hadn’t kept Beckett from suspension or drug dependency classes. Hadn’t kept lawyers from sniffing around, and it certainly hadn’t helped Beckett keep his guilt in check. And now, apparently, it hadn’t kept him from losing his job.
Instead of saying any of those things, he said, “Why not just trade me? I haven’t played in the minors since … since I was a minor!” Thoughts of sharing cramped locker rooms with kids whose voices had barely broken, of taking busses instead of private planes, of having to schlep his own gear, of having to prove he belonged on the roster with his fists, all roared through his brain at once. And if this was permanent? Fewer zeroes on his paycheck.
Gillaspie gave him a cold, hard stare, the slight curl of his lip a dead giveaway he was enjoying this. “I tried shopping you, Miller. No one will touch you, not with this mess hanging over your head and all the other shit you’ve pulled. You’re just lucky they can’t pin the drugs on you.”
“Beckett,” Coach said in an even voice, “why not talk to the counselor before you go? It can’t hurt.”
Beckett? Coach never called him, any of them, by their first names. He was Miller, Millsy, assorted colorful names not to be repeated in polite company, but not Beckett. His stomach dropped.
“Thanks but no thanks, Coach. I don’t need to spill my guts to some goddamn shrink.”
“Clear out your locker and report to Greeley in the morning. You’ll want to pack a bag. The Hawks are about to start a five-game road trip,” Gillaspie said, his lips a hard line. “And count your blessings. At least you get to stay in your own state.”
Beckett returned to the locker room, mentally flogging himself as he’d done since that night. His actions had nearly killed a girl, a pregnant girl, whose name wasn’t Karen Gruber. It was Lacy Delgado, using her friend Karen Gruber’s apartment. Funny. He would forever remember those two names. Not funny.
The locker room was nearly empty. Stuffing his last nine years into a few measly bags sucked. Big time. Worse than cleaning out his locker was hearing his teammates’ “sorrys” and “take it easys.” On his way out, he tried calling his agent with no luck. He nosed his cardinal red Mercedes-AMG SL 65 out of its parking spot and headed to his restaurant, Miller’s on Market, a few short blocks away. Listening to Jackie, his manager, grouse about the crappy help was nothing he looked forward to, but he could pour himself a stiff one while he checked on business. It had been a while since he’d stopped by. And right now he needed something to take his mind off what he most wanted but would never get: a do-over. For Lacy Delgado. For himself.
He parked his Mercedes behind the building. Where’s Jackie’s car? And everyone else’s? The place served lunch and dinner, and it was past five o’clock. The back lot was usually full except for the spot marked “Reserved for Owner,” but right now, his was the only vehicle there.
Beckett climbed out of his car and walked to the back door. His eyes caught on something silver and shiny. A padlock. Hanging from a thick chain. What the fuck? He yanked on it, but the chain didn’t budge. He blew out a breath and walked down the alley, past neighboring buildings that stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his, until he reached the sidewalk and squared around front. A couple stood in front of the restaurant’s glass entrance, reading something. The menu? But it’s not posted there.
“Oh man, that’s too bad,” the man said. “I just ate here last week, and it was great.”
Beckett pushed his way to the door. “Hey!” the man protested, but Beckett ignored him. His attention was riveted on a piece of white paper with the word “SEIZED” in bold red block letters. Stunned, he read, “Warning: This property has been seized for nonpayment of taxes and is now in the possession of the State of Colorado.” He didn’t finish the rest. Just stared at another shiny padlock and chain across the double door’s handles.
Beckett backed up and double-checked the address, double-checked the restaurant name, and looked at the sign once more.
The woman half of the couple said, “Hey, you’re Beckett Miller, aren’t you? Isn’t this your place?”
He stared at her, his mind reeling. She offered him a shy smile. He pulled out his phone and jabbed at Jackie’s number. An automated voice told him the number was no longer in service. He hit her name again. Same message. Then he swiped his chef’s number. Voicemail. Beckett huffed out a breath as he waited for the tone.
“Marco, this is Beckett. I’m standing in front of the restaurant, it’s five-fucking-o’clock on Saturday, and there’s a seizure notice on the goddamn door. Do you know what the hell is going on? I tried calling Jackie, but her phone’s disconnected. Call me.”
The couple had disappeared. Like a caged lion, he paced back and forth
in front of his restaurant. It’s a mistake. It has to be. Nothing else makes sense. More people came by and gawked at the notice, so he marched back to his car and tried more phone numbers. Nothing.
His phone rang, and he yanked it from his pocket so hard it nearly flew from his hand.
“Marco?”
“Yeah, man.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“You don’t know?”
No, dickwad, that’s why I’m calling you. “Don’t know what?”
Big sigh. “I got there yesterday morning, and some dudes were locking up the back door, so I asked them what they were doing. They said it was being seized, and no one was allowed inside—I couldn’t even get my recipes. I said, ‘Can you do that?’ and they said, ‘Yeah, we can do that because your boss ain’t been paying his taxes.’ ‘Did you give him any warning?’ I asked, and they said, ‘He ignored them all.’ I said, ‘Where you been sending ’em?’ And they said they’ve been sending ’em to the restaurant. I just figured you knew and Jackie was covering for you.”
Panic prickling his neck hairs, Beckett stood speechless.
“Boss? You there, man?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Tell me something, Marco. Do you really think I would screw you like that, screw everyone that works for me?”
Marco coughed. “We missed a few paychecks. Jackie, uh, said you were having some trouble, and that she’d do everything she could to make it right. She cut out after lunch day before yesterday and didn’t come back.”
“Fuck, Marco, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. All of you. I promise I’ll get you paid. In the meantime, if you need a reference, you know you got it.”
“Yeah, thanks. Hey, I’m sorry, man. I should have told you, but you ain’t been around much, and I thought Jackie was taking care of everything.”
How did I not see this coming? Yeah, Jackie took care of everything, all right.