by Lynda Aicher
“You know I do.”
“I remembered, sweetie.” Finn leaned around his twin to plant a sloppy kiss on Lanie’s cheek. “Your favorite uncle wouldn’t forget that.”
“But Uncle Aiden isn’t here.” The sweet innocence of the statement brought a bark of laughter from the room, including from Jacqui.
“Lanie,” her mother, Tory, chastised.
The little girl ducked her head into Colin’s neck as Finn winced, stumbling back dramatically. “You wound me, fair lady.” Always the comedian, he clutched at his heart, the stack of four pizza boxes tipping on their perch atop his other hand.
“Don’t drop the pizzas,” Dan barked as he jumped up to take them from Finn.
“Like I’d drop them.”
Dan slugged him on the arm. “You have before.”
“Really?” Finn gaped. “I was ten.”
Colin smacked Finn on the back of the head. “And eleven. And twelve.” The family had stopped letting Finn carry the pizza boxes after the third time.
The razzing continued as her brothers trudged toward the kitchen, Mom hot on their tail.
“Hi, Jac,” Finn said, pausing for a quick kiss on her temple.
“Hi, Jac,” Colin followed, repeating his twin. Born three minutes after Finn, Colin had stuck to that tradition, preferring to step back and let Finn take the lead. Identical in appearance from their russet hair down to the single dimple on their left cheeks and now-faint trail of freckles over the bridge of their noses, they were almost opposite in personality.
“Hi, guys,” she said, treasuring their love. Her family.
“The boxes go on this counter,” her mother instructed. “You should know that by now.”
Jacqui didn’t bother to hide her smirk. Dan was the oldest and at thirty-two, the only married one of the bunch. He made a face at their mom’s back, which he quickly schooled into innocence when she spun around, finger pointed at him. She wasn’t fooled.
Colin set Lanie down and slung his coat over the back of a dining room chair, glancing at the TV. “Who’s winning?”
“No score,” their dad answered from his recliner.
“Glaciers are dominating though,” Tory interjected, grinning over the back of the couch at them.
“Can I eat in here too?” Lanie asked her mother, eyes bright with hope.
“Fine with me, but ask your nana.”
“Nana…”
“Yes, sweetie,” their mom answered before Lanie could finish. “We’ll get out the TV tray for you.”
Her family buzzed around Jacqui, easily navigating between each other assisted by years of practice. She leaned against the wall, absorbing it all. The opening game of the Glaciers’ season was still a means for a celebration in her family. Only Aiden was missing, having to work at the bar for the game crowd. She missed him, yet was relieved she could avoid his questions about Henrik for a bit longer. She’d managed to do it for a week and counting so far.
A week of random texts from Henrik that’d made her laugh. Of indecision and most of all, longing. The last surprised her the most. And stumped her.
Henrik was supposed to have been a single fun time they’d both wanted. And it had been. Too much so, based on her inability to stop thinking about him.
She’d had one-and-done encounters before and had never lingered over them past the time it took her to leave. She didn’t have room to get hung up on a guy.
A glance around the house full of people she was already responsible for reconfirmed what she’d known since she was five. She couldn’t handle any more. Enduring two rounds of cancer had taught her about more than surviving pain or remaining positive. It’d shown her exactly how heavy and hard it was to carry the hope and love of so many. To see their fears or fake smiles. To know exactly how much her death would hurt them.
The weight was already too heavy. She couldn’t add another person to it. Especially not now.
Both times she’d been diagnosed with cancer in December, which had put a strange spin on Christmas for her family. The holiday season held elements of the Grim Reaper and the Savior wrapped together in a delicate balance every year.
Her gaze went to the cross on the wall over the statue of the Virgin Mary, a rosary looped loosely around it. The small display hadn’t moved in the twenty-five years she’d lived there. Unobtrusive and largely ignored, their mother had instilled enough of her beliefs into her children to enable them to make their own decisions about religion as adults.
Decisions Jacqui was still largely ambivalent about. It was hard to thank a God for saving her after He’d put her and her family through cancer the second time, like once hadn’t been enough.
“Hey.” Finn nudged her, his grinning face sliding in to block her view. “Are you eating?” He lifted his plate filled with pizza and breadsticks. “You’d better grab some before Dan eats it all.”
“Screw you,” Dan muttered as he passed, his own plate piled higher than Finn’s. “I’m sharing with Tory.”
“And I’m still eating for two,” she piped in. Her three-month-old son was cuddled into her shoulder, sound asleep despite the ruckus around him.
Finn’s grin spread even wider, his dimple lodging a serious dent in his cheek. “It never gets old,” he said to her, voice lowered.
“It doesn’t,” she agreed. Despite being the oldest, Dan had never mastered the art of ignoring his younger sibling’s barbs.
Finn tapped her nose and spun away before she could land a retaliatory hit. “That doesn’t either,” he called over his shoulder before he dropped onto the couch next to Dan.
“He’ll grow up someday,” Colin said at her side.
They shared a look then said in unison “No he won’t” before bursting into giggles.
“Hey,” Finn objected, never looking away from the game. “I have a job and an apartment.”
“And the mentality of a twelve-year-old,” Dan added.
“Thirty is too young to act like a fuddy-duddy.”
“I’m trying to watch the game,” their dad cut in, effectively ending further gibes. Their father was a man of few words, but when Wayne Polson spoke, his kids listened.
Jacqui watched the rest of the hockey game with her family. Curled up on the floor, back leaning on the couch next to Finn’s legs, she listened to the cheers and grumbles of her family as they rooted for the Glaciers.
Number thirty-eight held her attention every time he stepped onto the ice. Henrik was a direct and rough player, yet managed to be quick. She might not be an exact fan of the sport, but knowledge about it had dripped into her brain whether she’d wanted it to or not. He was damn good, but then of course he was if he was playing on a pro team.
There’d been a few close-ups of him that’d jump-started her pulse and jerked at her stomach. Sweat-covered, face hard, cheeks darkened with stubble, he looked mean and menacing. So opposite of the man who’d missed the entire innuendo behind seeing his piano, or who’d been under her while she’d ridden him to orgasm last week.
Henrik slammed a Chicago player into the boards, stealing the puck to take off up the ice. She lurched forward, cheering out loud for him without thought. He passed the puck off and the camera followed the action, cutting Henrik from the screen.
She slumped back, heart still racing, only to notice the ominous quiet in the room. She jerked her head around to see everyone staring at her, most with stunned expressions. Her mother, however, showed pure amusement.
“What?” Jacqui lifted her chin to cover her rush of self-consciousness.
“Henrik?”
The rise in Finn’s voice lingered as her verbal mistake crashed down on her. No one used first names for players. Shit. Shit. Shit. “That’s his name, right?” she bluffed, feigning ignorance.
“Not on the ice.” Dan’s insistence held an edge of reprimand that came too close to a scolding. Her hackles went up, anger switching her embarrassment to resentment.
“What does it matter?” Colin cut in be
fore she could respond. He nudged her with his foot from where he lay across the floor, his smile soothing. “She’s rooting for the right team. That’s a plus.”
An almost score by the Blackhawks dragged the attention off her and back to the game. She hugged her knees close to her chest and studiously bit her tongue through the rest of the game. Her error had almost outed her, for what? Screwing the defenseman? Her puff of laughter was thankfully hidden beneath the sportscasters’ discussion.
Watching Henrik power up and down the ice, ram into men and take hits that’d flatten most people, had the odd effect of making him even more attractive to her. The man on the ice was no gentleman. He was all hard force that should scare her, not turn her on. Right?
Yet knowing exactly how gentle he could be—had been—with her despite his ability to be fiercely brutal did excite her. And warm her.
Mostly it had her questioning her resolve. Staying away from him was turning into a challenge she seriously wanted to lose, and there was no real reason why she couldn’t. He’d left it completely up to her. Not pestering, yet staying visible enough through his texts to not let her forget him either—like she could.
Would one more time really be that dangerous? Not if it stayed at one more time.
That was the hitch she wasn’t sure she could manage. It still didn’t stop her from sneaking her phone out and firing off a text to Henrik, knowing he wouldn’t get it for hours.
It’s not a call, but you’re kind of busy right now. Is your piano still open for viewing? She deleted and retyped the second line multiple times in various forms before resigning herself to the absolute corniness of it and hitting Send.
There. It was his decision now and he could turn her down. She hadn’t been encouraging, and he undoubtedly had his pick of women. A fact Aiden had referenced, and she’d refused to snoop into, even though the internet was bound to be loaded with gossiping details.
That’s fine. The lie churned around the lump of pizza in her stomach until she got up to hunt down antacids. Maybe she really should have her stomach checked out. And maybe she should stop stressing over a guy and let herself enjoy the fun.
After all, she knew firsthand just how precious each moment was and how easily it could be stripped away.
Chapter Eleven
Henrik swung his front door open, a rush of autumn air swooping the scent of dead leaves and wet grass over him. Jacqui’s smile was warm if hesitant as she stared up at him. “Hi, Henrik.”
“Jacqui.” That was all he could get out. He stepped aside to let her enter, still a bit amazed she’d contacted him. Even if it was only a booty call, he’d take it. The fact that she was back at all was a step forward he hoped to capitalize on.
“Great game last night,” she said as he helped her with her coat.
“Thanks.” Her easy compliment brought an instant warmth to his chest and smile to his lips. Wait. “You watched?”
Her shrug was casual, her smirk guilty. “My family celebrates the opening game like a holiday. It was hard to avoid.”
“Right.” He ducked into the closet to hang her coat, his full grin shining freely at the line of jackets. She who didn’t care about hockey had watched him play.
She was heading to his grand piano when he shut the closet door, her back to him. Maybe she really did want to see the instrument this time.
Her long hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, all soft curls and tousled freedom. Stray sunbeams streamed through the big windows to light the room and lend honey tones to the thick mass as she passed through them. He itched to feel its silkiness again and he went to her to do just that.
He ran his hands up her arms, her brown sweater tickling his palms with its softness, catching on his roughened calluses while her hair danced across his knuckles. A trace of cold still clung to the strands. One inhale, and her muted flowery scent infused him.
He didn’t think before he dipped to press a kiss to her temple. His pulse drummed a beat of doubt and want that tangled around his heart.
Her fingers froze in their gentle caress along the edge of the piano. The lid was down and the corner where it sat was tucked away from the damaging rays of the sun. But the lacquered finish still shone, the high gloss reflecting the light to sing its glory.
“It really is beautiful,” she rasped before clearing her throat.
“You are,” he agreed, only slightly shocked by the honest sentiment. He’d been thinking that for weeks and even more since he’d found her text after the game last night.
He felt more than heard her chuckle. “There’s so much you don’t know.” Her soft admission somehow steadied his pulse.
“True.” He didn’t even try to deny it. “Not about this though.” Not her. For once he was certain about a woman. This woman and how different she was. He’d been with enough to know.
Her shoulders hitched with her breath before she spun in his arms to stare up at him. Her smile was too bright, too forced. “Can I play?” She winked, head tilting back. “The piano?” Even the joking banter didn’t cover the unknown hurt in her eyes. Would she ever trust him enough to share it?
He cupped her face and closed his mouth over hers in a gentle press of understanding and the hope that they’d get there. This said more than his words ever could. The sweep of her tongue, wet slick of lips and sweet taste of something too beautiful to define.
He lingered over the kiss, the heat simmering in a languid pulse of more.
Her grip on his waist eased right before she tried to pull back. He held one last kiss to her lips before he let her go. Energy spun around them, loaded and dangerous for the power it held. So fast and intense, it had the strength to freak him the fuck out.
But it didn’t.
She blinked, brown eyes hiding along with her bottom lip.
“Please,” he said, retreating under the weight of her uncertainty. “Play.” He stepped back, hand skimming down her cheek before he motioned to the piano.
She spun away, strides sure as she went to the front of the piano. “Do you play it at all?” Her expression was muted when she glanced at him, hand hovering over the fallboard.
Not in ten years.
The answer dug at his throat and he struggled with the need to breathe. Blood roared in his head, getting louder with his tumble into the past.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, swallowed and managed a brief headshake. He’d prepared himself for this moment, to hear the notes played once again. That was part of the original expectation when he’d invited her over to see it. A hurdle he’d thought he could finally handle with her help.
The first ping rang clear and true through the room. It lifted into him, spread then faded. Another followed, a slow scale picked out in a practiced flow set at a turtle’s pace. Did she somehow know how hard this was for him?
He lifted his head to find her watching him, not the keys. Her deep assessment rammed his heart into overdrive and set off a fluttering tic in his jaw. But he didn’t break her gaze. Like with the guitar, she knew he could play the graceful instrument that stood between them, yet she hadn’t dug into why he didn’t. She let him keep his demons.
“It sounds beautiful,” she said, glancing down to pick out another set of higher notes.
His throat was clogged with old fears and lost promises from long ago. So many tears were tied to that piano, and just as many laughs, which was why he couldn’t part with it.
“I have it cared for quarterly.” Far more than was needed. The home humidifier along with the one in-case also helped to keep it in top condition.
He grazed his fingers over the lid. It was his baby, even if a part of him loathed everything it represented. Loss, love, home, death, endings—they were all tied to the inanimate object like weighty anchors.
She lifted a brow, questions heavy in her expression. Or was it his own guilt pressing the questions on himself? Whether it was or not, she wordlessly edged the padded bench out and slid onto it.
His chest
eased at that. It was taking everything he had just to hold himself together for what was next. He couldn’t handle answering the many whys too.
He’d thought himself prepared, especially after the scales. How very wrong he’d been. The sweet start of the light, flirty notes sucked the air from his lungs. He clenched his eyes closed and focused on breathing. On the speed and flow of the notes. On anything besides the memories assaulting him.
Emma at that piano, her hair a halo of white gold around her fresh face, stunning blue eyes closed as she focused internally on the notes. Him playing beside his sister. Their grandmother tutoring them. Every note, every song played over years of lessons and countless performances.
It was love. The best he’d known and the thing he’d clung to until his parents had shipped him to prep school. That was when hockey finally overtook the piano. Hockey had filled the loneliness with more noise and a completely different family.
The notes faded, silence falling, but his eyes refused to open. Each beat of his heart drummed against his ribs and pulsed in his head, the heavy thump, thump, thump grounding. The second section of the sonata started, the adagio. Mozart. Yet another piece that sucked him into the time warp of regrets.
His throat was lined with barbs that burned up his sinuses to dig at his eyes. Tears he refused to shed. Refused to give power to.
Emma was dead.
“Can you play something else?” he barked over the notes, each word a blade on his tongue. The music halted immediately, a harsh cut to the beautiful piece of art.
And still he couldn’t look at Jacqui. Force the dark away by the simple act of opening his eyes. The heat kicked on, the air rushing through the vents on the other side of the room. Seconds ticked by, the silence stretching into a suffocating cloud that pressed on his back, his mind, his heart.
The unmistakable opening chords of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” lifted into the room. So dynamically opposite of the classical piece it crashed into Henrik’s remorse to obliterate his building breakdown on a rush of something new.
Laughter burst from his chest in a raw ache that shot over the music and melted into the rafters. Christ. He hung his head back, dry chuckles leaking out as Jacqui continued to play. The easy melody flowed over him to wash away his remaining pain. He could almost see his grandmother rolling over in her grave to have something so “uncultured” played on her precious C. Bechstein.
