by Stacy Lane
My family stuck by me when Elle didn’t. And when they returned to their lives, I made a stupid decision. One my family would hate.
“I can drive,” I tell her, holding out my hand for the car keys.
She slaps them into my open palm.
I remember Chelsea as being super smiley all the time. The glimpses into her temper make her even more attractive.
Chelsea doesn’t speak on the ride back to the apartment. As a matter of fact, she only lifted her gaze to me once. I was singing a song by Waylon Jennings. Her eyes blazed into the side of my face. But as soon as I glanced over, she turned back to the window and the view of the Bay.
When we got back, we both grabbed cleaning supplies for the mess in the hallway. By the time we finished, she wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t talking and turned out I liked that even less.
“I can help move these boxes if you want,” I say, cautious.
She nods, steps toward the stack, but stops. “You know what. No.”
“Okay,” I reply, making it a two syllable response.
“I’ll move them tomorrow. It’s late. I’m tired, and if anyone else breaks a nose tonight, I don’t care.”
“Okay.”
“Good night, Alex.” Chelsea spins on the heel of her foot, her door closing with a firm bang.
I’m left standing in a lit hallway with a glistening clean floor and the stench of bleach.
“Okay.”
CHAPTER 6
CHELSEA
I WAS IN such hot water with Betty Labelle. If I were one of her children, she’d disown me.
A few months ago when Betty met Jo, she adored her instantly. They bonded even more over pie. They loved baking pies and eating pies and talking about eating and baking pies. It was cute, and I was happy to see my friend at such ease with her boyfriend’s mom when the relationship with her own mom was complicated at best.
But the pie game was taken to another level. The ones I brought to potluck night were not homemade, and the tables have turned. Wasn't so cute anymore.
In all fairness, they are homemade. Just not made from my home.
It was never stated that the pies could not be store bought. And I at least had the decency to purchase them from a bakery.
“I don’t bake,” I answered the deafening silence.
Everyone went quiet when they placed their dishes on the island, and I pulled mine from a box.
“They’re so small,” Cheryl said. Betty’s friend leaned over the open box. I half expected her to start probing them with a finger to see if they were real.
“They are mini pies,” I smile, glancing around the circle of skeptical eyes. “There’s a bakery down the road from Triplets. Hardly visible from the street, but I used to walk a lot down there.”
I walked the streets around the arena because I didn’t have a car. Vic wanted me at his practices sometimes. I grew bored and started exploring.
The bakery is a block from the bar. Hidden from view by the two businesses on either side of it. But once someone discovers it, they don’t forget it. That little shop has been busy every time I’ve walked in. It’s family owned. They make a slew of pastries, but their mini pies are the fan favorite.
I pull one out of the box, holding a small, golden-crusted apple pie in the palm of my hand.
“If that’s not the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Cheryl coos.
“I know I was in charge of apple, but believe me, this is way better than any of the ones I’ve attempted.” I slide everyone their own mini pie to pile onto their plates.
All the girls were at my place (our place? Brooks’s place?). Tonight was the final home game for the Fury. I had no interest to attend and watch my ex finish off his shitty season.
As a matter of fact, I was rejoicing that I no longer had to be an advocate for his ego and say “better luck next season.” I wanted to sit back, prop my feet up, flail my arms and scream at the TV when he makes a crappy ass play. Like not sticking to his forwards, or taking an open shot from the line because he can’t shoot worth a damn from any angle.
I was counting the days for the Playoffs to begin. I was craving to enjoy watching hockey again.
Scooping up the last pie from the Tiffany blue box, my eyes roll up and over the heads of the four women surrounding me. My gaze was tugged across the room as if it’s been hooked and reeled in.
Alex entered the living room—tall, lethal, and all-important in a navy suit. The crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, left open enough to tease at the base of his throat. His long legs ate up the stretch between him and us.
He’s attending the game with Cam and their dad. I’ve dodged him all day long by sheer luck or awkwardness. I wasn’t ready to face him after the fiasco of last night. I woke up this morning to find all of my boxes had been moved. Alex took care of that after I stormed off to bed in a fit. He likely only did it because he didn’t want another one of his “dates” to wind up in the ER.
I should have thanked him for taking care of my mess, but after a restless night of sleep, I was still rip-roaring mad. A stupid I-shouldn’t-be-mad-and-it’s-making-me-more-mad-because-I-am-mad.
Okay, I’m going to stop repeating mad.
Of course, what did I expect? I agreed to live with a red-blooded male. A virile, brooding, hot man that has needs. A single adult just like me. The only reason I wasn’t bringing men back to my place for meaningless sex is that I’m not sure I could do arbitrary hookups. Everything in my world has meaning. Like why does it mean so much to me that my roommate brought home a playmate?
Which, I figured out.
I was having trouble meeting Alex’s eyes all day or remaining in the same room as him longer than one minute, for the apparent reason that the woman he brought home was a puck bunny. A friend of Amber’s.
I felt bad for breaking her nose, but I didn’t feel sorry for interrupting her plans with Alex.
An icky feeling ran through me when Steph mentioned Amber. She’s the home-wrecker that I caught with my husband. But the unease was overturned by the yapping, nasally, blood on my hallway floor Steph. She was going to be with Alex, and that put me in a fuming mood.
As I sat in the waiting room at the hospital, I realized something. I was nowhere near this close to angry when I caught Vic with a puck bunny.
So I avoided Alex.
Jo and Taytum showed up early to hang out with me, and I was relieved to have a buffer. My friends were missing the last game of the season for me. I repeatedly told them not to, but I was more worried about interacting with Alex from here on out than seeing my ex on TV.
Mel texted me multiple times this morning in regards to what’s been the hangup on my divorce. The reason I finally called her: Alex approached me to discuss last night, and how he would be more discreet in the future.
Is Vic finally acknowledging the papers I filed months ago? Yes! Great! You know what’s not great? Alex could potentially bring home another woman tonight.
He’s living with a female for two weeks. Is it too much to assume he’d keep his indiscretions nonexistent during that small time frame?
Ladies, back me up here. Just don’t hook up with him for my sake, for a little while longer.
So what if he walks into a room and knows he owns it. Ignore those smoky gray sex eyes. Stop drooling over his chiseled, refined jawline. Look past that tailored suit that fits him like he has his own fairy godmother who bibbidi-bobbidi-boos that shit on him.
Sigh. We’re all screwed.
I blink away from the stormy stare he swept me in. There are four buffers here now. And one is his mother. I should be in the clear avoiding him for the remaining amount of time before he leaves for the arena.
“Ladies,” he drawls as he approaches. That deep, natural, roll-off-the-tongue shimmies down my spine.
“Hello there, dear. I thought you would have left by now.” Betty smiles at her son, cupping his face with a gentle and loving pat.
“My mom was coming
over. I couldn’t leave before saying bye to you.”
Awws circle the island we've gathered around.
Dammit, but that was aww-worthy.
“Sweet boy,” she preens. “Are you being good to Chelsea? I hope you’re not inconveniencing her. I told you to stay with your dad and me.”
“I prefer to be closer to the arena,” he replies. “Besides, Chelsea barely notices I’m here.”
Pfft. If anticipating your husky morning voice or curiosity over whether you sleep naked at night or in boxers is being unaware of your existence, then sure.
Silence greets my ears.
Oh crap. I scoffed out loud.
I clear my throat to add some kind of noise to the dead awkwardness.
“Living under the same roof as one of your sons, Betty is going about as well as I could have ever expected it to.”
“Wow. That was such a long, polite way of saying he’s a pain in the ass,” Taytum says, stuffing her face with more pie.
His mouth turns up, and it’s unnerving. Alex is so serious all the time that when he does finally smile it feels like there’s an ulterior motive.
“Have you found a house yet?” Betty asks her son.
“My realtor will have some to show me this weekend.”
“This weekend is the gala.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Jo groans. The sour look on her face says she wishes she could forget the gala.
The annual charity event hosted by the Labelles raises money for a few different causes. I heard from Jo the auction started when Betty looked for ways to help families in similar situations to Cam’s wife. She was in an accident that took her life.
The gala entertained those with deep pockets. Vic and I were to attend together, but the Labelles revoked his invitation on my behalf. I didn’t ask them to do that. As a matter of fact, I had plans to sit on the couch Saturday night and watch chick flicks in my pretty pink gown. I was happy I had somewhere to wear it now.
Jo, on the other hand, is griping about the heels I made her purchase to go along with the stunning dress she’s wearing for the event. It’s long and flowy, and she thought she could get away with slipping on a pair of her trusty Chucks underneath.
Ha! She’s so adorable sometimes.
Monique Lhuillier has me to thank for Jo not ruining her creation.
“Your brothers are bringing dates. What about you?” Betty pries.
Hm. Maybe there is a thing as too much pie. My stomach is unsettled.
“Brooks is bringing his girlfriend, and whomever Cam brings was probably paid for in cash.” That earned him a smack from his mom.
“Chelsea doesn’t have a date. You can escort her.” The suggestion was so final, and not a suggestion at all.
My head snaps their way. Time to put the fork down. “I’m perfectly capable of going alone.”
“Of course you are, sweetheart,” Betty says passively. “But you’re alone, he’s alone, might as well ride together.”
Alex’s jaw ticks. “I still have time to bring a date.”
“As do I.”
Pick the fork up and stuff your mouth. You’re saying things you don’t mean.
“Chels, you’re ready to start dating?” Jo asks with excitement.
See what I mean?
“Can’t hurt to test the waters.” I lift my shoulder in a weak shrug. “I’ll be a divorced woman soon.”
“He signed,” Jo concludes, face lighting up. Then it drops. “Then why’d he come by harassing you yesterday?”
To get one last hit in since the marriage is really over now. Vic was the hang up this whole time. He didn’t like how I filed the papers, claiming him as the adulterer.
“Yesterday,” Alex repeats with a hard grunt. “Vic was here?”
“He came by. I didn’t let him up. My sister told me today his lawyer finally returned her calls. Vic’s signing the papers.” I breeze over the full answer to his question. I only told Jo about his visit and relentless texts since she happened to call during my pity party. The tears and stuffy nose gave me away.
“What does Jo mean by he harassed you?” Alex’s jaw ticks faster, pulsing at its own rate.
“It’s nothing,” I answer on reflex.
Jo takes my hand behind the counter, apologizing with a gentle squeeze. She’s aware Vic’s verbal bashings are not something I like to generalize with everyone.
“Fine. Go find yourselves dates if you must. But when Saturday evening arrives, and the two of you are dateless, I expect to see Alex escorting Chelsea.” Betty wags her finger at the both of us, finishing with her first bite into the mini apple pie from the bakery. “Well, shit. That’s a delicious pie.”
We all laugh, and it breaks the tension that developed from Alex and me.
Cheryl distracts me even further when she asks if I would redecorate her sunroom. A paid job. She heard through Betty about my blog and desire to become a freelance interior designer. Cheryl and her husband recently had a Florida room added onto their home. She wants it filled with plants, new furniture, and decorated in a coastal theme.
It’s not a job I’ll make much money from, but I don’t care. She’s my first paying client.
Bouncing on my toes with excitement, I leave the kitchen and head to my bedroom. We’re going to search through photos and create a mood board to give me an insight into Cheryl's style.
I cross the room to my nightstand, grab my iPad, spin around and yelp. Alex stands at the threshold of my door, leaning a solid shoulder against the frame.
“What did Jo really mean about Vic?” his voice fills my room with a dominant presence. The air thickens with the wild waves rolling off him.
“I’m sure you can’t see it, but right now I’m really excited about something, and I don’t want to talk about Vic.” I trek halfway back to the door, but he doesn’t move an inch.
“I’ve noticed things, and it may not be my business—”
“It’s not.” I stop one step in front of him. “Have a good time at the game, Alex.”
My defense came off rude. But I hated that Alex “noticed things.” We were hardly roommates at this point, so what had he picked up on?
It was hard enough sharing with Jo, my best friend. I’m riddled with shame. Ashamed that I let someone treat me with disrespect and control my life. That I couldn’t be my vibrant self with the one person I should have been able to because he is who I chose to spend my life with. Everyone believed my bright and shiny personality when the truth was I didn’t know what was real anymore.
Vic stole that light.
But I feel it coming back, and I don’t want to lose it ever again.
He shakes his head, almost as if he’s arguing something internally. Shoving off the doorframe, he reaches into his pocket, pulling forth a tie in a vibrant red shade. “If you need an escort Saturday, I’m happy to help.”
Yeah, he sounds really happy about that.
“I’ll be fine on my own.” My fingers beat an impatient rhythm on my leg. He’s blocking my exit.
“Good.” I drag my gaze to him, affronted by Alex’s clipped response. He loops the silk around his neck, working the knot. “Would you want a man taking you because his mommy made him?”
“Well, apparently I’m a prostitute just because Cam asked…”
“You’re going with Cam?” He cuts me off in his efforts to refasten the tie.
For the third time.
“He asked. But my fee was too high.” Smacking his hands away, I set my iPad aside and take over before he wrinkles the smooth material.
“I could do it myself if I was in front of a mirror.”
“Mhmm.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says in a low, casual tone.
“No, I’m not going with Cam.” My eyes drift up to his, lingering no more than a second. That’s too much time attached to those smoky grays when we’re this close. “I’m perfectly capable of escorting myself. Happy to go alone, actually. I’
ve done these events many times, always on my husband’s arm, always his trophy wife that had to play the part. This time I’m walking in alone. I’m going to dazzle and shine and draw attention. I’m no one's useless clunk metal. There. All set.”
My hands drop.
Step away.
Step away, Chelsea.
No, don’t look up!
Alex watches me. We’re not touching, yet I feel every inch of his front as if it’s pressed to mine. His heat. The pressure. There’s a pull floating between us. A current sucking me deep into a bottomless ocean. We both fight so hard against it, but that only tires a person out.
But I have to fight it.
He’s Alex who brings home puck bunnies, and I’m mad about that. He’s my surly, temporary roommate. He’s built secure of confidence and mettle, and I’m barely functioning and wrapped in tape.
The choice is easy: Look away. Step away.
The execution: Not so easy.
Alex sweeps his heady gaze over my face, stopping on my mouth. I’m terrible at reading signs. After all, I’ve only been with one man. But I would swear, this one reads he’s about to kiss me.
His head lowers the slightest bit. My chin lifts up.
“It’s a little tight,” Alex says, pulling at the tie I knotted. “But thanks. Enjoy your night, Chelsea.”
He turns and leaves.
I so read that wrong. I’m terrible with signs, but that might as well have been written in braille.
CHAPTER 7
ALEX
AS SOON AS the doors to the elevator closed on Brooks’s apartment, I dialed my realtor. She’s to have houses to show me this weekend, and I needed to make sure the right one was going to be in that lineup.
Fuck! I almost kissed Chelsea.
I followed her to her room, blinded by instinct. A protective urge to check on her.
The same urge I had all day. I cared more about Chelsea’s feelings than the woman I left at the hospital with a broken nose.
She was pissed at me. I understood that loud and clear.
