by Lynda Aicher
She swallowed, searched and came up with the truth. “Yes. I am.”
“But…” He let the word drag out.
“But…” She opened her eyes to stare at the rows and rows of empty cars, all waiting to be filled with people, life. “Is it fair to him?”
“Jac—”
“Really, Aiden. Is it fair to bring him into my life when I’m such a risk?” Was it fair to either of them?
“You haven’t told him then?”
Her sarcastic bark stabbed at her guilt. “Why would I? It’s just sex.”
“Jacqui!” His outrage blasted through the line.
“What? I can’t do casual sex because I’m a girl?”
“No!” His growled denial raked over her irritation. “You can’t do it because you’re my sister.”
“Weren’t you the one who was just reminding me of my shortened fertility life?” Damn chemo. There was always adoption, something she’d accepted as likely long before she’d left her teens. Babies were not a reason to hitch herself to a man.
“I hope to God you’re not fucking him for a baby,” he said, eerily aligning with her own thoughts, but in the opposite way.
“What? Oh my God!” Anger and outrage ignited at once. “I don’t… You’re such…” she floundered, hurt rushing in to choke her.
A deep sigh came through, along with a garbled curse. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” she spit out. “Just…don’t.”
“Jac—”
“No! I have to go.” She wiped at the tears that’d slid down her cheeks. “I’m going to be late for work.” Her quick blast of rage deflated in a slow drain of disappointment that Aiden would really think that low of her.
“Damn it. Jacqui.”
“Bye, Aiden. Call if you need something.” She ignored the exasperation in his voice and ended the call. She jerked her earbuds out with a sharp tug, chest aching. Damn him. Her phone landed on the passenger seat with a soft thud. Damn him.
She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, did it again. Damn him. The jab of pain worked up her arm to siphon away the one throbbing in her heart.
Why’d he have to do that? She’d felt so good after talking to Henrik. Shocked at her boldness, but loving who she could be with him. For him. Because yes, he wanted the control from her. Needed it, maybe.
And she loved giving it to him.
Damn it.
She dropped her head to thunk on the steering wheel. Another repeated action. The solid force on her brain helped. It gave her something to focus on instead of the tumbling maze of her thoughts. It was a small trick carried over from months spent fighting cancer, hours and hours getting chemo, enduring radiation and lying in a bed.
Was she imagining the dynamic with Henrik? Taking advantage of his generous nature? She didn’t want to be—wasn’t—like the other women, was she?
No. She wasn’t using him. She wasn’t searching for a baby daddy or trying to trick him into being one. Fuck Aiden and his stupid mouth.
She cringed, her mother’s reprimand for her curse echoing in her mind. Sorry, Mom.
The silence ticked by on the buffer of the wind as it gusted against her car. The cold was seeping in, staking a claim on the lingering heat of her anger. The burn in her stomach faded to a shallow simmer after she swallowed an antacid tablet.
She wasn’t taking advantage of Henrik. She’d refused his outrageous gift even though she’d silently salivated over the lavish instrument. She hadn’t placed demands on his time or made a show of being seen on his arm. The only thing she’d taken from him was sex.
Mutually gratifying sex. Amazing, mind-blowing sex. Sex that’d empowered and comforted her.
And he wanted more than sex. He’d told her that from the start.
Her snort was so full of self-scorn she choked on it. The harsh edges of the truth stripped away the last of the heat until she shivered.
Maybe she wasn’t using him like the other women, but she wasn’t any better than them. Because by her own definition, she was using him. For sex.
When she really, really wanted the more he was asking for.
Could she do it though? Be strong enough, trusting enough, brave enough to try?
She straightened, brushed away the additional tears from her cheeks. Henrik would never push her, she sensed that. Never force or drop an ultimatum on her either.
He’d take what she gave him until she changed her mind and he’d go with whatever she decided. He wasn’t a fighter off the ice, especially with women. He wasn’t a callous user either. She could be wrong on all that, could be assuming a lot based on a little over a month of knowing him, but she didn’t think she was.
He deserved better than that. Much better than what she’d been giving him.
They both did.
Chapter Fifteen
“Are you all right?” Henrik’s soft prodding was accompanied by his big hands on her shoulders, a gentle rub following.
Jacqui’s groan was instantaneous when he hit the two balls of tension on the tip of each shoulder blade. Her head fell forward, another moan of approval tumbling out as he prodded the knots.
“I used to get these when I played every day.”
She caught his slip around the sigh of relief singing through her muscles. Played every day. He wasn’t referring to hockey. He still played that every day.
She opened her eyes and leaned back to rest against his chest. His arms came around her to hug her close. Another storm was blowing in, the rain already starting. It pelted Henrik’s big windows with wet patters of nature’s annoyance.
The darkening sky had her body clock thinking it was later than it was. The time change always threw it off. Every year she had to fight the urge to put on her PJ’s and snuggle in for the evening, even though it was only four-thirty.
The idea of doing just that with Henrik, curling into his side on his big couch, was both soothing and heartbreaking. Most nights during the winter months he’d be at an ice rink either here or someplace around North America, and she’d be at the music store working.
“What are you thinking about?”
You. He’d pretty much been on her mind nonstop for days. “How nice this is.”
“I do this a lot.” He squeezed her lightly, a kiss pressing onto the top of her head. “The view is…soothing.”
She clamped her eyes closed, the kiss sinking down her skull to melt over her shoulders and down her spine. Was it possible to feel a kiss all the way to her bones? “It is,” she agreed. “But I was talking about being here with you.” He had the night off. No game. No practice. No plane to catch.
“This is really nice.” His chest rose and fell against her back, each slow breath a calming rhythm she tried to match but couldn’t.
“I don’t have to work tonight.” She’d bargained with Max to take her shift so she could be here.
His breath hitched, held, smoothed back out. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Changing your schedule.”
“How do you know I changed my schedule?” A hint of wariness crept in to prick at her contentment. She didn’t remember telling him that before now.
“Because you work almost every night, at least a few hours if not the whole evening.”
She frowned then sighed. He was right. Unless she asked for a night off, she was at the store. Money was too tight to pass up the hours. And yet she was here right now, despite all the reasons why she shouldn’t be.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “We can go out for dinner.”
Be seen with him in public. Was that what he was implying? Or was he just being nice and offering to take her out like any gentleman would do?
Her brain hurt from all the double—and triple-guessing she’d been doing. Shoulds and shouldn’ts, right and wrong, wants and needs. In the end, she really only had to ask herself one thing: Did she want to lose him?
The answer always came back “no.”
She turned in
his arms, the soft glow of the overhead lights warding off the approaching darkness. A new bruise bloomed black and purple on his cheek. An elbow to the face last night. She’d watched the highlights of the game while she’d eaten lunch today. She’d launched out of her chair, phone clenched in her hand when she’d seen it happen.
She skimmed her fingers over it now, barely stroking the skin. Clean-shaven. The smoothness was unexpected, as was the lack of visual scruff. He appeared younger, less of the gruff, bad boy image. But he really wasn’t that, was he?
Her fingers hovered over the new injury. “You’ve had worse, right?”
He frowned. “Dinner? We can eat in too. There’s plenty of food in the fridge or freezer.” She pressed on the bruise. He flinched away. “Ow.” His frown deepened.
“I was talking about that.”
“Oh.” His expression flattened out. “Then yes. That’s nothing.”
“He should’ve gotten a penalty for it.”
His grin grew in slow increments. “You watched?”
She clamped her lips tight to hold in her smile, which failed miserably. “I could only do the highlights during lunch. I was—”
“Working last night,” he finished for her before dropping a kiss on her lips, chasing away her scowl. “See? I was paying attention.”
“Humph.” She faked another scowl. “I should probably be wary of that.”
He shook his head slowly. “Not where you’re concerned.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like you.”
Damn. There went her stomach flipping and churning again. She’d downed an entire roll of antacids in the last two days before giving up on them helping. “I don’t understand why.”
“Which is why.”
The circular answer only confused her more. She wasn’t like his other girlfriends, something she’d finally succumbed to and ran a Google search to confirm. Aiden had been right about her not fitting Henrik’s usual type.
Rain smacked at the window with a sudden gust of peppering taps. The air seemed charged with energy. Whether from the outdoors or the storm brewing within her, she didn’t know. Could she really do this? Them?
She’d been stroking the soft bristle of his sideburn by his ear, the hair teasing her fingertips in a calming motion. “There’s so much you don’t know about me.”
“Then tell me.”
Her swallow hurt, rough and jerking. “Is this the point where we share our darkest secrets?” she asked, half hoping he’d brush the question off as a joke.
He stared over her shoulder and it was a long moment before he looked back, solemn. “You want to do that? With me?”
The disbelief that meshed with the hard doubt in his voice jabbed at her overused guilt. How could she not? “Yes.”
His smile grew then wavered. “Can we sit down for that?”
Oh, shit. Her brief chuckle launched another stomach roll that blended with the thunder that rumbled over the house. “Do we need a drink for this too?” Her attempt at levity fell flat, but she held her smile anyway.
He settled his hands on her hips, kissed her soft and sweet. “I have just about any alcohol you’d like.”
“I thought athletes didn’t drink.”
“I don’t. Not very much.” He lifted a shoulder. “But a well-stocked bar keeps guests happy.”
Yet another thing that differentiated them. “My family is more the ‘we have beer and whisky. Everything else is at the store’ type.”
“I think I’d like your family.”
There it was, a simple statement that had her heart thumping with a rush of longing dampened by that ever-present fear.
He led her to the living room, each step a move forward that could plunge her backward. Yet she followed, willing to take the risk. Hoping it’d be worth it.
“So,” he said when they’d reached the couch. “Drink?”
She eyed the brown leather, mind flashing to the wild sex they’d had on it. Of him giving her so much then taking her with a power and care that’d shattered her. “No. I’m good.” Alcohol and the excuses it provided hadn’t been a part of their relationship so far. There was no need to add it now.
He settled himself into the corner, then waited for her. She could seek the comfort of cuddling into his side, but she needed to see his eyes to gauge his reaction. So instead of doing what she wanted, she sucked up the courage and did what she needed.
She tucked a leg beneath her and faced him, nerves racing up to steel her breath. Could she handle the additional weight that came with loving Henrik? That was where this talk was taking her, she couldn’t shy away from that. She already cared for him—a lot. Too much to stop now.
Even if he bailed after hearing how much of a risk she was, she owed it to him to give him that option before they went any further.
He shifted until he mimicked her position, slung an arm along the back of the couch and toyed with her hair, swirling the ends around his fingers.
They studied each other, darkness overtaking the outside light while the storm battered the side of the house. Was that an omen of bad things to come? However, a similar storm had raged during their first encounter here, and that had turned out pretty damn good.
“Who’s starting?” she asked to break the silence. The jitters evened out in her chest, a surprising calm settling over her now that the moment was here. She couldn’t control his reaction, only hers, and she swore she’d handle his secrets with the same care he’d shown her.
His one-note laugh was an echo of what she felt. He scrubbed a hand over his face then reached to lace his fingers with hers. Knees bumping, hands linked, they stared at each other, questions and doubts flowing silently between them.
Maybe this was a bad idea. They didn’t have to make what they had into anything more. Didn’t have to purge their ghosts or bare their souls or whatever it was that they were about to do.
They didn’t have to do anything.
But she wanted to for the first time since she’d heard the words “the leukemia’s back.”
Her pulse picked up then slowed. Somehow, against all likelihood, this big, aggressive, gruff man on the ice had reached a part of her she’d closed off for so long she’d dismissed it. Had convinced herself it no longer existed.
And now she didn’t want to forget it was there.
Chapter Sixteen
Henrik muddled through the rush of cycling emotions and thoughts until a numbness took over. Jacqui was here for more than sex. Wanting to know about him, his life, his secrets. No one—absolutely no one—had ever wanted that from him.
It was the more he’d sought and thought he’d never find. Now that it was here, he was clueless on what to do. Sweat clung to his back, his T-shirt sticking in patches he hoped didn’t show.
The chance that this could be his happy ending pushed him forward. She could change her mind, but he wouldn’t know if he didn’t take the risk. And really, what did he have to lose? More empty relationships with shallow women who wanted his money and image more than him?
“The first memory I have of playing is when I was three,” he said into the quiet, broken only by the drumming of his heart and the fury of the storm outside.
Her brows lowered on her serious face. “The piano or hockey?”
“Piano.” He had to swallow to keep his throat wet. “Hockey didn’t come until I was six.”
She tilted her head closer to where his fingers played with the soft strands of her hair, its silky texture a comfort. Her smile urged him on.
“My maternal grandmother was an avid patron and supporter of the arts,” he continued, plunging into his past, which he generally avoided excavating. “She saw it as her duty to share that with her grandchildren.” A grand and powerful woman, she’d managed to balance the uncaring socialite attitude with a true love for her family. Unfortunately, she hadn’t managed to pass that trait onto her only child—his mother.
“Sounds wonderful,” Jacqui said, squeezing his
hand.
“It was.” It’d been the first place he’d found acceptance. “Grandmother insisted on private teachers, but also let us develop our own love for it. She never forced anyone to play, which is why only Emma and I ended up playing seriously past the age of seven.”
“Emma. Your little sister,” she stated with gentleness, thumb swiping soothing strokes over his.
He had to swallow again to get past the sorrow and guilt that still had the power to drown him. “Yes.”
“You miss her.” Another statement delivered with soft understanding.
“Every day.” Nightfall had fully descended, the darkness creating a mirror out of the tall glass. He stared into the reflection, lost in the past of good and bad. He appreciated Jacqui’s patience in not pushing with questions or platitudes. “She was only seventeen when she died.” The exposed wound spilled acid from his heart. “Drug overdose.”
Jacqui repositioned her hand to grip his tighter. A glimmer of tears flashed in her eyes before she blinked them away.
He cleared his throat, stared down at their joined hands. “It was prep school fun gone wrong,” he got out, forcing himself to continue. “I was in my sophomore year at Harvard, focused on hockey and classes. We’d grown apart in our teens with both of us at different schools. The two-year difference was huge at that age, but I still tried to watch out for her. Worried about her whenever I saw her.”
“You went to different high schools?”
His flash of a smile was weighted with sarcasm. “A major rift was almost formed over which boarding school we’d attend. The Grenicks versus the Hedbergs. In the end, the boys conformed to the Grenick’s tradition, and Emma followed the Hedberg’s. All parties were happy, except they’d never bothered to ask us kids if we were.”
“Were the schools in Boston?”
“No. Mine was in New Hampshire. A whopping one hour away from home that required me to board there.” His depreciating laugh was more of a scoff. “I actually saw my parents more after I went there than I did when I lived at home. Emma was in Manhattan.”
