Irresistible You

by Kate Meader

  “I have an employee discount on Rebels merch and a wine cellar gathering dust.” She licked her lips. “Maybe I could give you your totally impromptu present now.”

  He chuckled, raspy and sexy. “Oh yeah?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Nope.” Shouting and laughter that made her heart clench with envy bubbled up in the background. He lowered his voice. “For shame, Ms. Chase, wanting to corrupt me in the bosom of my family. How about I call later and tuck you in?”

  They said their good-byes and Harper filled her wineglass to the tippity-top. Five, ten, maybe forty-five minutes later, Violet walked in. “What’s up, Dictator Spice?”

  Harper raised her head from the kitchen island, where she was taking a self-pity break. She sniffed loudly. “Why are you here? I thought you were spending the holiday”—she waved at some point in the distance—­“somewhere else.”

  Violet shrugged. “It fell through. I thought you’d be off at Bailey’s mom’s exchanging Argyle socks and drinking brunch.”

  Harper hiccupped. “I’d rather be alone.”

  “With your creepy doll.”

  “It’s not a creepy doll.” She tugged it protectively to her breast. The hair was a little mussed from Harper trying to braid it and create a mini French knot. “It’s—it’s a nutcracker of a Rebels fan.”

  Violet drew closer, picked up the note, and read it. “Well, I’d be drinking, too, if my boyfriend got me this lame gift.”

  Harper snatched back the note. “He’s not my boyfriend and it’s not lame. It’s perfect. He’s . . .” Perfect.

  Violet pulled a glass from the rack above the island and poured a drink. “I see.”

  “You don’t see anything. You don’t see how terrible this is.”

  “You’ve fallen for him.”

  Maybe she did see. She tried a different tack. “This is the worst thing that could happen.”

  “Is it?” Violet sipped her wine. “Why is it so terrible? Doesn’t he make you happy?”

  Ignoring that, Harper busied her hands with putting the gift away. It was just a gag gift, really. No reason why she should be reading such significance into it.

  Yet she felt compelled to explain. “He makes me feel desired. Wanted. He makes me feel like a kiss could solve all my problems. Like a sandwich can melt all my troubles away. But all those things, they’re just fleeting.”

  “Especially sandwiches.”

  Especially sandwiches. He fed her, fucked her, fussed over her. But he wouldn’t be here when she needed him to skate like there was no tomorrow.

  “I’ve been through this before.”

  “You said it didn’t end well. That Stroger guy got traded out or something?”

  Harper went for her glass, but knocked it over instead. “Oh, God, I’m so stupid.”

  But Violet was already grabbing the paper towels, mopping up, and passing her own glass to Harper.

  “It’s okay, sis,” Violet said, and just that one little word—sis—unleashed a fresh wave of emotion. Tears fell down Harper’s cheeks, and she belched like a warthog. She wanted to tell someone about the time it all went wrong and her heart had turned to granite.

  But she wasn’t drunk enough to spill, or maybe the one person with whom she wanted to share every fear and insecurity was nine hundred miles away. “This thing with Remy—it’s so dumb of me to do it, but he’s very persuasive and he makes me feel special and the fact he’s leaving soon—”

  “Harper,” Violet said, squeezing her shoulder, “it’s okay to be upset about trading Remy out. If you feel something for him . . .”

  “I can’t.”

  “That’s not quite the same thing. Listen, I won’t say anything more, except . . .” She looked torn. “Remy is not that other guy, the jerk from Boston, and neither is he Clifford Chase. If you tell him you want him to stay, he’ll probably do it. If you want to continue seeing him after you trade him, he’ll probably go for that, too. Guys are a lot simpler than girls.”

  “It’s just sex. Really, really great sex.”

  “And sandwiches. And creepy-ass dolls that look like you.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The blues club on Hubbard in downtown Chicago was hopping, busy with revelers in the city for the New Year, like Remy’s parents, who usually visited whichever city he was in around this time of year. Since his poppa was a musician, he also liked Remy to scope out the best blues joints.

  Tonight they’d played against Boston for the first of a double-header and won 3–2. The entire team was out in force to celebrate, though they were taking it relatively easy given that they had another game tomorrow night. No one wanted to risk a loss when the season had taken a turn for the better.

  Leaning on the bar, Remy eyed Bren, wondering why he chose to come out with them to bars. Did the camaraderie outweigh the risk of being in such close proximity to the drug that had you in its grip? Guess it was his cross to bear, or maybe he saw it as a test of his will.

  Speaking of willpower, Remy was trying his utmost not to look at his parents, not that doing so was a hardship, but because they happened to be sitting with Harper.

  “DuPre?” Bren gave him a look.

  “Yeah?”

  “Cool it.”

  Just what he needed, an anti-wingman with a Scot’s brogue.

  Today, while he and his poppa checked out guitar stores, Harper had taken his momma, Josie, and his niece Sophie to afternoon tea at the Drake. He hadn’t asked her to do it, but as soon as she’d heard the family would be in town, she’d organized a day out. Shopping, spa treatments, Earl Grey tea. With any other woman, he’d think she was trying to cozy up to his female relatives as a way to him—Lord knew he’d had a few previous girlfriends who tried that and barely lived to tell the tale—but that wasn’t Harper’s game. She wasn’t looking for anything more.

  But he sure as hell wished she were.

  They hadn’t talked much since Christmas Day, since she’d opened his gift. He knew she’d gotten a kick out of it, maybe more, and that she was starting to pry apart in the face of his onslaught. He was in. Inside her head, inside her body, and inching closer to that heart she kept wrapped in barbed wire and pinned with a No Trespassing sign. He intended to trespass. He would invade those borders and plant his fucking flag.

  Hauling his gaze away from Harper, he said to Bren, “So almost halfway through the season. In the black for the first time at this point in how long?”

  “Happened about seven years ago. Then four years before that.”

  Bren knew the Rebels’ stats inside out, having come up through the ranks starting with the farm team.

  “So, 19–16,” Remy said, referring to their win-loss record so far this season. “Not terrible.”

  “Could be worse,” Bren conceded. “We’re looking . . . viable.”

  They shared a knowing look. It almost felt like a sacrilege to say it aloud. Less than four months to go on the regular season, but there was a hope in the air that bloomed brighter with every game. When Remy had traded in, players seemed resigned to losing. Now if they lost, they were pissed. Pissed players won games and qualified for playoffs.

  Was it possible Harper Chase was onto something?

  “Miles to go yet,” Remy said, not wanting to jinx it, because if anyone could, the unluckiest guy in the league had that shit down.

  “And you won’t be here.”

  Remy eyed Bren, trying to decide how much he wanted to get into this with the captain. He didn’t owe the Rebels his shot just because things had graduated from abysmal to decent.

  “What would you have me do? This body’s not getting any younger, Saint.”

  Bren just continued to stare with that hollow-eyed look he was expert in. “Your call, brother.”

  Yes, it was, and n
o one would guilt him into sticking around because the hard-luck Rebels had the makings of a Cinderella run on their hands. Remy didn’t have time for what-ifs, only for certainties, and the Rebels in the playoffs—or further—was a fairy tale. Just like anything beyond a sweaty tangle of limbs with Harper Chase was a fantasy the likes of which Remy should shut down stat. But he wasn’t giving up there, was he?

  A band had started up on the stage, an outfit with a touch of bluegrass and Zydeco, just like his father played. He chanced a look, and there was Jorgenson leaning over his dad and gesturing to the stage. Like his father needed any encouragement. Poppa was playing it cool in that self-deprecating way of his. That wouldn’t last.

  When the opening number had finished, the lead singer of the band spoke to the audience. “We just heard that Alexandre DuPre is in the house tonight.” Typically, they pronounced it “Alexander,” with a hard English der instead of a soft French dreh. Cheers went up because even in Yankee blues club circles, Remy’s dad was well known.

  “Alexandre, maybe a song for your fans?”

  Remy checked in with his dad, who was waving off requests. Even Harper was on his case, though he could have told her it was unnecessary. This was all part of the DuPre “who, me?” shtick. Finally, he stood and the crowd went wild. Nicely done, old man.

  Remy caught Harper’s eye—first time since forever, it felt like—and that zing zipped, the one that had worn a rut between them since the moment they’d met. They both turned away before they started in with the goofy smiles.

  Forget about falling in love. He was already flat on the ice.

  Harper wanted to spend all evening staring at Remy and all night kissing every inch of his beautiful body. The temptation was almost too much to bear, so instead she turned to watch his father on stage because that was the closest she could get to ogling a male DuPre safely.

  Alexandre picked up a guitar and strummed a couple of testing chords. After a quick consult with the band, he launched into a bluesy up-tempo number that had the crowd tapping their feet and up on those same feet before the song had finished. Harper didn’t know much about blues music, but she recognized something special when she saw it.

  “Merci, mes amis,” Alexandre said when the song finished, and that little smidgen of French set the crowd off cheering again. “You might be wondering why I’m here in Chicago. I came to see my son, Remy, play hockey tomorrow night with the Rebels, who are having a pretty good season so far, n’est-ce pas?”

  More loud cheers led to a healthy buzz as people absorbed the information that Alexandre was Remy’s father. “Not a lot of people know this, but as well as being a force on skates, my son also knows his way around a music stage. It’s been a long time since we played together.” Eyes filled with paternal love sought out his son’s. “Remy?”

  “I had no idea,” Harper said to Marie.

  Remy’s mom smiled, sphinxlike. “He could have gone into his father’s business, but hockey called louder.”

  The team was going nuts, egging Remy on while the man played it cool, ever the showman. Eventually—not as long as his father took, but long enough—he jumped onto the stage, where he shook his head at his father for putting him in this position. All part of their charming double act, no doubt. Alexandre handed off a guitar to Remy, who slung it around his neck like it belonged there.

  The crowd hooted in appreciation. Harper’s girl parts gave a little hoot of their own because, Remy with that six string over his shoulder? Hot dayum.

  “Not expectin’ this,” Remy said, his accent thicker than ever, “but I sure appreciate the band lettin’ us hijack their set for a few.”

  As soon as he strummed the first couple of chords, the crowd roared, as did Harper’s heart.

  “Wonderwall.”

  Maybe it was a coincidence, but Harper knew better. In the early days of the Rebels, when they were the newest sports franchise in Chicago and hope sprang eternal, “Wonderwall” was the team’s anthem, played before every game. As the original recording ended, the crowd would pick it up. But when the Rebels’ fortunes plummeted, the song was no longer sung—or perhaps the fans who knew it no longer came.

  Remy’s voice had a rasp to it, the same tone she’d heard when he was inside her body. Deep, melodic, a voice created to draw pleasure from a woman. With each line, his commitment to the song grew, and by the time he hit that first chorus, the crowd had joined in.

  Burnett and Jorgenson were on their feet, pointing at the stage in awe of their teammate and this hidden talent. Harper let the music take her somewhere—back to Remy’s bed that snowbound holiday weekend, the stolen moments since, and maybe a future she didn’t dare imagine.

  If Harper had thought one verse and a chorus of “Wonderwall” would make her melt, she hadn’t reckoned on Remy’s ability to raise the stakes. Now he sang about the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how. He never looked her way, but with each additional lyric she felt his attention sear into her.

  “Because may-beeee, you’re gonna be the one that saves meeee . . .”

  He sang the song to her, yet no one in this crowded club suspected a thing.

  A rock-sized lump had formed in her throat. Her skin tingled with this strange new knowledge that Remy DuPre was secretly wooing her in front of hundreds of people. The tingle turned into an itch, a panic-laden rash, because she couldn’t have nice things. She grasped the glass of wine before her and caught the eye of Remy’s mom, Marie.

  Ah. So she was wrong about no one else picking up on what was happening. A mother always knew. Marie smiled and looked back at the stage toward her son and husband.

  “Thank you for today, Harper. It was very kind of you to take care of us.”

  Harper nodded, feeling like three layers of skin had been peeled back and someone had taken a blowtorch to her. “Happy to. You were so welcoming to me in New Orleans.”

  Marie cast another glance at the stage, and this time she kept her gaze on her husband and son while she spoke. “Remy comes off as very laid back, but as a child he was so intense, the most intense of my children. His goals have often clashed with his joie de vivre. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Harper stared. “Not really.”

  “Outsiders often dismiss the Acadians as swamp dwellers with little ambition, an insular people who don’t have time for material things. All the losses that Remy has endured on the road to the championships have hurt him, but his positive outlook gets him through. For him, there will always be next year. Some people think he is too fatalistic about it, too accepting, too softhearted.” She shrugged, a rather fatalistic motion in itself. “He mentioned this bargain he has with you, how you will release him to another team soon. I’m glad of it, especially after this last year with his father’s illness. Now, Remy is older and there is no more next year. There is only this year.”

  A chill crept through Harper. No matter what her heart wanted—her own shot at greatness, her own shot at Remy and the happiness he inspired in her—she would never deny him his true desire.

  So what if she needed him to make the playoffs?

  So what if his touch was necessary to her very existence?

  So what if she had fallen in love with him?

  She faced Marie, needing her to know that she meant every word. One strong woman to another. “I’m not going to stop him from going for the Cup, Marie. He and I made a deal, and I intend to honor it.”

  Remy’s mother’s shoulders relaxed in visible relief and she reached for Harper’s hand under the table.

  “Thank you.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Remy watched from the bench, one eye on the forward line that had just gone in, the other on the scoreboard as if it might dare to change without his say-so. The Rebels were up 2–1 on Boston. It would have been 3–1 if they could have capitalized on a two-minute penalty resulting from his old p
al Stroger trying to get inside Remy’s pants five minutes into the second period. They’d done a little cha-cha, exchanged a few disparaging comments about each other’s mothers, and Stroger fell for it hook, line, and sinker. The asshole got called for interference, yet the Rebels had failed to use it to their advantage.

  The game had begun auspiciously. Someone had filmed Remy’s performance at the club last night and it had gone viral. The DJ played “Wonderwall” when the Rebels skated onto the ice, and every now and then, the crowd picked it up and carried it on a wave to the next play.

  He’d only sung it to make Harper feel good, a nostalgic nod to a time when the Rebels were filled with promise. With each line, he’d sunk deeper into it as the words revealed new layers of meaning. The song was for her, but now the fans were co-opting it because it meant all things to all people. To them, it meant hope.

  And hope was in full bloom for Remy. Just before he skated onto the ice, his agent had called with the news that Harper was already in talks with both Philly and Quebec to negotiate a trade.

  That should not have bothered him because Harper, a woman of her word, was giving him precisely what he’d asked for. Several teams were interested despite the Remy DuPre jinx. Looked like he’d sold the goods a little too well. Played himself off the Rebels and right out of Harper Chase’s bed.

  He’d give it to her—Harper was a pro at keeping business and pleasure separate. She wasn’t the most sentimental woman he’d ever met, a fact he’d sworn was a boon because there would be no tears when he booked out of Chicago. You know what? He might have liked a tear or two. Yep, he wanted to have his cake and eat it, too.

  His mind swirled with possibilities. This could work. He’d get a decent shot at the Cup and a decent shot at Harper, because if he was no longer on the team, the conflict of interest that so concerned her would be removed. That sneaky little fucker named hope bubbled in his chest.