by Addison Fox
In the same way flying was more for him than just a job, Grier Thompson was his more.
She was his everything.
And as he lay in the dark, holding her against his chest, Mick began to fear. Because he had no idea what he was going to do when she went away.
Avery lined up a row of margarita glasses and poured out the batch of frozen cocktails she’d whipped up in the blender. She’d never understood anyone’s interest in drinking one when the temperature was twenty below, but who was she to judge.
She made the drinks; she didn’t have to drink them herself.
The lobby bar was in full swing as the denizens of Indigo put on their best smiles and hoped they’d be captured on film for Roman’s big TV interview.
A glance toward the open office doorway indicated they hadn’t started the latest round of filming yet and Susan paced nervously outside the door. She was up first for the interview and Avery saw the photo she had clutched in her hand.
Avery knew that picture. It was one of Roman, at seventeen, dressed in his full hockey gear and holding a trophy high. He’d set a record in the state league that year for the most goals and had been given the trophy after their last game of the season. It had been her sixteenth birthday and she’d lost her virginity to him the same night.
That picture had sat on Susan’s desk for years and every time she looked at it, a small knot settled just underneath her heart.
That was what no one understood.
The reminder of Roman Forsyth was so ever-present—so tangible and real in the town of Indigo—that there really was no escape. No time to heal.
There were many things she looked forward to experiencing on the trip to Ireland, but that one sat at the top of her list. Four glorious months where no one knew her. No one knew about that night she had too much to drink and puked in Mrs. Waters’s bushes. And they had no idea she’d lost her first serious boyfriend to the NHL. And they most certainly wouldn’t look at her in pity for having given up her twenties taking care of her alcoholic mother.
No one in Ireland knew her and she couldn’t wait to get there.
“Those margaritas ready?” Mindy Trexler smiled at her across the bar before turning her attention toward the office. “It sure does take a long time to put together a TV shoot.”
“You should have seen all the setup they had to do earlier. It’s an endless process.”
Mindy had agreed to pick up an extra shift tonight and Avery was grateful for the help. She handed off the margaritas and pointed toward a door at the end of the bar that led to the storeroom. “I have to get that Cab you wanted from the stockroom. I’ll be right back with it.”
Mindy nodded and headed off to Margaritaville, and Avery made a beeline for the stockroom. She couldn’t hold back her curious gaze as the camera people continued to putter around the office door. Susan wasn’t standing outside any longer, so things must have started moving forward.
About time, she almost muttered out loud, catching herself at the last minute.
All the fuss was starting to wear on her. The camera crew had stayed up extra late the night before, drinking in the lobby until two. She’d then gotten up early to help deal with the breakfast rush. Images of her bed flashed through her mind and she slapped lightly at her cheeks, willing away the walking dead image she had to be projecting.
A few more hours and it’d be over.
And Ireland awaited, she reminded herself once more, the idea glowing like a beacon in her mind as she opened the door to the stockroom.
“You’re Avery Marks?”
Avery turned from where she balanced on a small step stool, attempting to pull the desired bottle of wine from a top shelf. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t until she turned that she recognized its owner, Priscilla Davies, the woman interviewing Roman.
“Yes, can I help you with something? Is there something you need for the shoot?”
The woman waved a hand in the direction of the lobby. “My crew’s still setting up.”
“All right. Do you need something to drink, then? I can get you some bottled water or a soda if you’d prefer.”
“Actually, I’d like to talk to you.”
The slight confusion that had her asking Priscilla hospitality questions faded as a small frisson of awareness skated down her spine. Avery snagged the bottle she wanted and stepped down off the stool.
The polite proprietor’s smile she’d put on evaporated in the calculating gleam of Priscilla’s narrowed blue gaze. “About?”
“You and Roman Forsyth.”
“I don’t think I’m on your interview schedule.” Avery held still, even though the urge to rush past her through the storeroom doorway was strong.
“I’d consider you a last-minute addition. The town’s awfully friendly and people have been very quick to point out your history with Roman.”
The woman practically purred Roman’s name and Avery bit back her annoyance. “I’m sorry, but as you can tell by the crowd in the lobby, we’re very busy tonight.”
Avery did push forward this time, moving steadily toward the door so Priscilla was forced to step outside of it. With a hard snap, Avery pulled the storeroom door closed behind her.
“You can tell your story. I’m more than willing to be fair and present your side.”
Panic swam in her stomach in hard, stifling waves and it felt as if hot clammy fingers gripped the base of Avery’s neck. “There’s nothing to present, Ms. Davies. Nor do I have anything to tell.”
Priscilla’s voice had her turning back despite her best efforts to keep moving toward the familiar comfort of the bar. “But you are the one Roman left behind to pursue his goal of the NHL. Love’s collateral damage.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“And yet here you are, still single from what I hear. And working in Roman’s mother’s hotel, too.”
Despite her efforts to remain calm, Avery heard the slight quaver in her own voice. “As are several women in this town.”
“I’m simply looking to paint a full picture of Roman’s life. Tell his story, as it were.”
“Well, clearly you’re looking in the wrong place.” Roman’s voice rang out behind her and Avery turned to find him striding forward, murder in his gaze.
She’d seen that look before—he usually wore it just before he got into a wicked fight with an opponent on the ice. The image had often reminded her of a warrior headed into battle.
“I’m just talking to an old friend of yours, Roman.” Priscilla’s voice was smooth, but Avery didn’t miss the dark light that filled her eyes with calculating menace.
“You’ve got that right. Avery is an old friend. And as I told you before we began this process, I wasn’t going to burden my friends with an intrusive peek into their lives.”
“I didn’t think someone you’d known as well as Ms. Marks here was included.”
Roman extended an arm to her. “Well, she is. Now, if you’ll join me, the camera crew is ready and you’ve kept my mother waiting long enough.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Marks.” Priscilla took Roman’s arm and allowed him to turn her back toward the lobby.
Anger lit the depths of Roman’s eyes, coloring them a bright shade of green. He gave her one last, long look before turning toward the lobby and marching the errant reporter back to the staging area.
Avery took a deep breath as they walked away. Her hands shook and her legs had a decidedly rubbery feel, but she was safe.
Roman had come to her rescue.
And if she wasn’t mistaken, the apology in his eyes was about far more than a nosy reporter.
* * *
Grier smiled to herself as she rooted through Mick’s refrigerator for the ingredients to make breakfast. And she wasn’t surprised when she came out with bacon, eggs and a packet of hash browns.
Everything about the man screamed hale and hearty. The fact his pantry wasn’t a bachelor wasteland of Pop-Tarts and Froot Loops only reinfor
ced that.
She ran her hands over the large long-sleeved T-shirt that covered her to her knees and rolled up the sleeves to start preparing breakfast. She’d found the shirt folded on a chair in his bedroom and reveled in how his scent surrounded her.
Twenty minutes later when he came out of the bedroom, freshly showered, his hair still wet and curling around his neck, she had the eggs scrambled and waiting to cook last as the bacon and hash browns merrily hissed in skillets on the stove.
“That smells good. Usually I have to do this myself.”
“I’m impressed you cook at all. And I’m even more impressed I’ve seen nary a Pop-Tart in your kitchen.”
He smiled as he pressed a kiss to her lips, then moved to the coffeepot to pour himself a cup and refill hers. “Oh, I’ve been known to ride the morning sugar rush on occasion, but I prefer something a bit more substantial.”
“Very self-sufficient of you. Sadly, I fall all too often in the bachelorette camp of ‘grab it and go.’”
“Strawberry or chocolate Pop-Tarts?” He looked over the rim of his mug.
“Granola bars. And forget the fruity ones. I want chocolate with my breakfast.”
“Sustenance from a box and no hidden nutrients like dried fruit for you.”
“In short, yes.” Grier turned back to the stove to flip the bacon strips.
“You’re a woman on the go. I’m sure an hour making breakfast isn’t doable.”
She hesitated briefly at his words, not sure why they caught her up short. There wasn’t any censure or criticism in his tone, but the sentiment chafed all the same.
Shaking it off, Grier transferred the bacon onto a plate and did a fresh whisking to the eggs. The temptation to drop them into the skillet was great, but she grabbed a new pan. No matter how often she worked out or how much she enjoyed a hearty breakfast, there was no way she was frying her eggs in bacon grease.
A gal had to draw the line somewhere.
“Go ahead and grab some plates and I’ll get the eggs going.”
His footfalls were heavy behind her back as he padded around the kitchen and she couldn’t deny the sweet coziness of the moment, especially when it came on the heels of a night spent wrapped up together.
“Thank you for yesterday.”
He stepped up behind her and pressed his lips to her neck. “For what?”
“Everything. You helped me through my first trip to the cemetery. I didn’t want to go alone but knew I had to. And then you were there.”
Grier thought about the trepidation she had felt walking toward the cemetery and the incredible rush of reassurance when she saw him standing there.
He shifted behind her, lifting his lips and resting his chin on her head. Even in that simple gesture, he understood her. Their sexy moment had shifted into one more akin to comfort, and she marveled at how easily he read her and changed to fit her needs.
“You doing okay?”
She briefly laid a hand over his before returning it to the pan. “I am. And my aunt Maeve was right. I owed my father the respect of going. Even if I had a few resentful moments.”
“Healing’s a process, Grier. You’re not expected to figure it out in a day. And when you layer on Jonas’s choices, well, you’re only human.”
“I’ll do better next time.”
As she said the words, she knew they were true. The anger she’d struggled with had calmed overnight. Although she still felt raw, the bleakness had faded, and in its place was the resolve to move forward.
For herself and for the relationship she wanted with her sister. She couldn’t change what had come before, Grier knew, but she could eventually put her feelings to rest.
“I think the eggs are about done.”
Grier saw that moment when their excessive runniness turned over into scrambled eggs. “I never cease to be amazed at that.”
“At what?”
“That singular moment when a bunch of runny eggs becomes breakfast. It’s magic.”
“It’s transformative. Sort of like the first time I saw you.”
His arms tightened around her and Grier wondered that she didn’t melt right there. Although she’d never have imagined being compared to a pan of scrambled eggs was sexy, she couldn’t imagine a better compliment.
He shifted behind her and she didn’t miss the sexy proof of his arousal pressed into her backside. Heat licked at her spine and she toyed briefly with the notion of shutting off the stove and turning into him. “You’re going to make me forget breakfast.”
She felt his smile against her skin as his lips returned to her neck. “I didn’t think anything kept you from breakfast.”
“That’s not entirely true. Nothing keeps me from pancakes.” She arched into his touch, all the while trying to keep her attention on finishing the eggs. “Bacon and eggs are a distant second.”
His fingers skimmed along her rib cage. The touch was featherlight, but it had the impact of a cyclone. Sensations swirled in her stomach as need built at the apex of her thighs. They’d made love three times the night before and still she wanted him.
With a desperation that bordered on madness.
She was rapidly losing her focus on breakfast and turned the knob off on the gas. “Just let me get these off the stove.”
“Here. Let me.”
He took the heavy pan from her and slid the eggs onto a platter she’d pulled down. After setting the empty pan back on the stove, he turned off the heat under the hash browns, then pulled her close.
“Forget breakfast for the moment. I’ve got something far more delicious to nibble on.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
His arms wrapped around her and she tilted her head up for his kiss. His breath was warm and she could taste the light hints of his toothpaste underneath the heavier tones of coffee.
She opened for him, and a light moan rose up in her throat as his tongue stole into her mouth. Sexy and intimate, they stood there for long moments as desire built into a raging inferno.
“I want you, Grier. Always, always,” he whispered against her mouth.
“Take me.” She arched against him with the sinewy grace of a cat. “Please.”
Mick obliged, pulling her up into his arms and quickly crossing the short distance from the kitchen to the couch. As he laid her on the couch, then followed her down, she gladly took his weight over her and encouraged the proof of his arousal as he pressed his lower body into hers by cradling him between her thighs.
Arousal pumped through her, vibrant and life affirming. Mick made her feel necessary. As if his next breath depended on her.
She ran her hands over the long, rangy muscles of his arms, enjoying how they bunched and tightened under her fingers. The lazy moments grew increasingly urgent and she shifted her legs restlessly against his. The oversized T-shirt she wore bunched at her waist and her panties were heated and damp where he pressed against her.
“While I love the way you look in my shirt, let’s get you out of it.” Mick shifted and sat up, pulling her with him.
She grinned at him. “I will if you will.”
Mick laughed as his oversized T-shirt hit him in the chest. Leave it to Grier to manage a combination of sexy and funny all at the same time. “I have to say, I like you without pants.”
He dragged his own T-shirt off and reached down to slip off his shorts.
“I’m just glad for once I’m not stuck in my clothes as I attempt to strip for you.”
Mick reached for her and pulled her close. “Baby, never apologize for stripping for me.”
“Let’s just say clumsy and oafish doesn’t scream sexy.”
He nuzzled her throat. God, what was it about that wonderful spot where her shoulder arched gracefully into her neck that drew him again and again? “You always scream sexy to me.”
He pulled them both back to the couch, settling so she straddled him in a seated position. He bent down and took one peaked nipple in his mouth, satisfied as it grew harder
against his tongue. She tasted so fresh and sweet, the light tang of her skin the headiest aphrodisiac.
He felt her back muscles bunch under his hands as she arched into him, and he drank his fill as his body clamored for satisfaction. Unwilling to satiate his needs before hers, he kept one hand firmly on her back to hold her upright while the other reached down between their bodies.
Mick found her ready for him, her hot core slick with moisture as his fingers wove through the light tangle of curls at the juncture of her thighs. Grier writhed against him, her breath growing shallow with heavy pants as he pushed her higher, driving her to take all she could.
A desperate hunger consumed him as he watched her pleasure grow. His cock was painfully stiff; yet he pushed her on, the erotic image of her in the throes of pleasure emblazoned on his mind in vivid detail.
The heated flush that covered her chest. The lush swell of her lips, ripe from their kisses. The stormy gray haze of passion that darkened her gaze.
He drank it in—drank her in—and reveled in that moment when she went over. Her tight sheath clenched around his fingers as her hands tightened at his shoulders as she rode him.
“Now, Mick. I want you now.”
Unable to deny the needs of his own body any longer, he shifted her on his lap, embedding his aching cock to the hilt. She wrapped around him, the internal aftershocks of her orgasm nearly dragging on his own right then, but he maintained his tight grip on control.
Grier’s arms wrapped around his neck and her head pressed to the side of his head. He felt her fingers thread through his hair as she pressed her lips against his ear.
“It’s your turn, cowboy.”
And then she began to move.
In moments, his own release was upon him. On a hard, heavy thrust he rose up to meet her as she drove her body over his. And then his world went blank in a wash of pleasure so powerful he wondered if he’d ever recover.
The next few days passed in a pleasant blur of activity. Word had gotten around that she’d put together Chooch and Hooch’s taxes and, to Jess’s original observation, many others had soon followed suit.
Grier found she liked the work, the time she spent with various townsfolk an enjoyable and productive way to pass the day. Walker had offered a small conference room he kept in his office, but she found the quiet of the hotel’s conference room a suitable fit.
