Dear Roomie

by Kate Meader

  Reid was here? “He’s texting you? Since when?”

  “Just a few days. I send him gossip about the players so he can confirm or deny. He’s very indiscreet.”

  What the hell was happening here? She shouldn’t be this excited, but her heart was in charge and zooming ahead of her body toward Reception.

  Reid waved through the glass doors at seeing her, his lips turned up in a rare smile. Bucky sat at his feet but jumped forward upon seeing her.

  “You’re here!”

  “Yeah, Edie asked me over to play bingo.”

  Of course she did, the wily minx. Kennedy turned to Janice at Reception, who was waiting to jump in with her rules and regs hat on.

  “He can’t bring the dog into the dining room.”

  “Oh, I know that! How about we put him in Edie’s room? Just for an hour or so.” She leaned on the counter. “He’s completely housetrained and as gentle as a lamb. And we already registered his shots record with the front desk a few weeks ago.”

  She slid a glance at Reid. If ever there was a time for him to act like a hottie hockey hunk, it was now.

  Her guy stepped up to the face-off circle. “Janice, I promise we will both be good boys.” That barely-there French lilt was slightly more pronounced.

  Janice responded with a giddy giggle. “Well, you don’t have to be too good. Just your dog.”

  Reid winked at her and Janice looked like she was about to collapse in an orgasmic puddle. She waved them on through.

  “Where the hell have you been hiding Reid the Flirt?”

  “The charm emerges only when necessary.”

  It was so good to see him. She had left him an empty husk post-sex this morning but that was then. That was the physical connection they shared and this—this was something entirely different.

  They arrived at the entrance to Edie’s room and stepped inside. “He should be okay here while we hang out.” She unhooked Bucky’s leash and hung it on a hook inside the door. Before she could say bingo, her back met the door and she was covered by a hard-bodied hockey god.

  “Hi,” he murmured before capturing her mouth with his.

  She moaned, loving the taste and feel and weight of him. The gravity that was Reid.

  “Is this weird?” he asked after he let her up for air.

  “Necking in the bedroom of a senior living facility? No, not at all.”

  He rubbed his nose against hers. “I don’t want to interfere with your special time with Edie.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re here.”

  She loved that he was making such an effort with someone she cared about—it said a lot about the man. She was used to making casual friendships on her travels, and this had the potential to be anything but. She felt safe, grounded, and desired with him.

  Two of those three things terrified her and neither of them involved lust.

  He pivoted, taking in the room. “Now, Bucky, be a good boy and no climbing on Edie’s furniture.”

  Bucky lay down on the rug and went perfectly still. He’d come such a long way.

  Reid picked up a photo of Edie and Papa John. “Is this your grandfather?”

  “Yeah, he was a Chicago firefighter, but he died before it happened.” She found him watching her closely. “Before the fire.”

  “Holidays must be tough for you, ma belle.” He put the frame down. “When’s the last time you spent one in the US?”

  “Six years. It’s not hard to find some ex-pat deep-frying a turkey on a beach somewhere. I haven’t gone without.”

  His look was searching, grave. “What were they like?”

  She blinked. “My parents?”

  He took her hand and sat her down on Edie’s bed. “Just curious to know about the people who made this beautiful girl before me.”

  Oh, wasn’t that lovely. She took a breath and waited for the pain to wash over her. Sometimes it snuck up on her with the scent of gardenias, her mother’s perfume. Sometimes it was a short, sharp shock with a glimpse of a dead politician on TV and her father’s voice ringing clear as a bell in her head. That guy’s a crook!

  For now, the ache stayed at bay.

  “Mom—Libby—was a high school teacher. History. She loved to garden and paint—I inherited none of her talent.”

  “The watercolor by your bed. That’s hers.”

  “Yes, it is. When I saw that Calla lily in the pot, I couldn’t believe it. It’s the same flower. Did you buy that?”

  “At the garden center the night before you stayed over the first time.” He looked diffident. “To make the place more welcoming.”

  It had worked. Her mother’s favorite flower, the subject of the one thing Kennedy had saved from the flames, was waiting for her in Reid’s guest room like a sign from the universe.

  “She was also a good cook.”

  “You got that from her.”

  “I did!” She laughed, remembering those days at her mom’s side in the kitchen. “My Dad, or Benjamin—and he preferred the full name, no Ben or Benny—was a poli sci professor at IU. Indiana University in South Bend. He was a big fan of seventies TV, donuts, and embarrassing me in front of my friends. John F. Kennedy was his hero.”

  “Hence the name.”

  “Yep. When I was mad at him for something, I’d yell that JFK was a mafia-loving philanderer who almost caused World War Three with the Bay of Pigs invasion. How dare he name me after that loser?”

  She’d completely forgotten that and the memory was like a whiskey dram of warming nostalgia to her heart.

  “A little more intellectual than the usual teen rebellion.”

  “Yeah, it was. The dinner table was never dull. A history teacher and political science professor with a kid named Kennedy. We had a dog, too—Peanut, because Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer before he was president. Dad thought Carter was ineffective but a good palate cleanser after the Nixon-Ford debacle. His words. Peanut was always wedging himself under the sofa. Such a dummy.”

  “So, you’ve been a dog person forever.” His hand stroked the inside of her palm, such a comfort.

  “I have.” Of course, if Peanut had made it out, her dad wouldn’t have gone back in to find him. All because Kennedy had made a fuss about her best friend. Why had she done that? Crying about her dog so much that her father had tried to soothe his daughter by playing the hero.

  She looked down at Bucky with his missing eye and his multiple scars and cursed the person who had abandoned him, or worse, so that he ended up in the lake. Reid might have had it under control in those frigid waters, but the last time she let someone else do the saving, her world stopped spinning. Her father had died inside the house looking for Peanut under the sofa. Her mother, later at the hospital, from her injuries and smoke inhalation.

  These days Kennedy did the rescuing—puppies, players, and herself.

  “It seems like another part of my life, so long ago, yet sharp enough to still feel it deeply.”

  Still stroking her hand, still holding her gaze. Just giving her the space to let it out.

  She sniffed, wiped a stray tear. “Luckily I had Edie to help get me through. I was hell to live with those first few months. She was a real trouper.”

  “She thinks that about you.”

  “Yeah, we’re quite the mutual admiration society. I’ve really missed her. She doesn’t have anyone. Not really.” Neither did Kennedy, but that was largely her fault. Arm’s length was the safest distance. “Edie said I was always welcome. She loves me like I’m a blood relative, though I’m not.”

  “She loves you because you’re Kennedy. It might have started out that way but you’re not defined by your relationship to her husband. Edie cares about you, not her husband’s granddaughter.”

  “I love her, too.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Of course you do. I know you’re an open person about some things—your sexual demands, your James Garner obsession, your criticisms of me—but with other things, personal things, it
doesn’t come so easy. I’m honored when you let me in a little.”

  A little could so easily give way to a lot. To everything.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, repeating the words she’d said earlier, only now they were imbued with a heartwarming magic.

  “Me, too, though, I’m a little worried.”

  “What about?”

  He leaned in close and whispered, “I’ve never played bingo.”

  She laughed, loving this playful side of Reid. “Oh, they’re going to eat you alive.”

  28

  Reid wasn’t big on relaxing. Long, restful baths were not his thing. A couple of guys swore by cold water immersion (Kaminski did it during the second intermission, which everyone thought was nuts). Reid was not about to jump on that train.

  But no one had told him that a hot, sudsy, candlelit bath with a woman you were obsessed with might be almost as good as sliding into her tight, fuck-me body.

  “This was a great idea,” Kennedy murmured, reading his mind. She covered his much bigger hand—currently cupping one gorgeous tit possessively—with her small one.

  “Just what I was thinking.” His lips trailed along her temple over damp curls and soft skin. The last few days had been busy, but whenever he and Kennedy crossed paths it inevitably led to his bed, the shower, or here. (There had been one enterprising moment against the kitchen counter.) The cage door was open—off its hinges, in fact—and they couldn’t get enough of each other.

  Talking about her parents had loosened Kennedy up. She might think Reid reserved but she was as tightly-wound as him when it came to sharing what was in her heart. Not that she was treating him like a therapist, but something had unlocked between them.

  Unlocked his game, too. The Rebels were on a mini-streak of three straight wins and were third in the conference. Reid wanted to think his play was helping. Something was happening, that click-into-place that Coach has said needed to happen. Reid was becoming integral to the front line. It felt good to be needed.

  “So, big game soon,” she said. “Bastian’s excited.”

  The gruff sound in his throat let her know exactly how much he cared about Bast’s excitement. The two had become friendly with texting and sharing memes and all that nonsense.

  “You know he’s trying to needle me through you.”

  “Because I’m not worthy of being his friend independently of Reid Durand, Superstar?”

  “That’s not what I meant. You two are pretty alike—cheerful little chipmunks with evil streaks. I can see exactly why you get along.”

  “He actually wants you to be happy.”

  Deep down, Reid knew that to be true. Bast was decent to the last drop, the kind of guy you would want in your corner or on your team. But the real issue wasn’t whether Bast wanted Reid to be happy—it was whether he should want that. After all, Reid had been a bullying dick to him for much of their childhood, all caught up in craving Henri’s approval. He couldn’t get it the natural way, with talent or blood, so he took it out on Bast.

  Yet here was his baby brother being nice to him, thrilled to be in the same city, enjoying their crosstown rivalry. He might not mean to do it, but Bast’s friendship with Kennedy added another layer of self-doubt. Sure, Reid made her feel good physically but his brother filled a different need. A woman like Kennedy naturally gravitated to someone with a sunnier disposition. Like Bast. Like anyone else, probably.

  Kennedy might not be looking for a soulmate, but if she was, it wouldn’t be a moody grouch like Reid.

  “Your dad’s coming to visit. How do you feel about that?”

  “Well, Dr. Clark, I’m not sure. How am I supposed to feel?”

  She kissed him mid-laugh, and he let himself steal a smidge of her joy. “I’m just interested. He sounds … difficult.”

  “That’s one word to describe him. It’s part of what made him such a great player. When I was little, I used to watch his old games, trying to figure out how I could play like him. He was an enforcer—”

  “What’s that?”

  “The guy who checks aggressively, starts fights, responds to dirty plays. That kind of player isn’t used as much anymore. Dad saw the writing on the wall so when Bast and I were growing up, he focused our training on speed and goal-scoring. Enforcers are considered one-dimensional and don’t always get a lot of respect. Henri Durand is all about respect.”

  She took his hand and placed her pruned fingers against his. “He must be so proud to have both of you playing at this level.”

  “He is. He wants us to fulfill our potential so when we don’t play as well as we should, it hurts him.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “But it’s not like you purposely play bad to disappoint him, is it? No one plans to be a disappointment, so he should really cut you some slack.”

  “He just expects us to try our best. But our best is a product of many things: talent, training, effort, will. Bast’s success has always been easier for him to root for.”

  She turned in the water, her eyes flashing with … huh, anger. He could have told her she needn’t be angry for him but his heart had already skipped several beats in anticipation of her defense of him. Was this what it was like to have someone in your corner?

  “What does your mother think of all this?”

  “Mom isn’t a huge hockey fan. She doesn’t like to see her sons in competition, especially the kind of competition encouraged by Henri. They divorced as soon as Bast went to college and she’s much happier without him.”

  “Sounds like your mom has Ornery’s number.”

  “Ornery. Cute.” He kissed her, trying to smooth away that righteous anger—but not too much. He liked the lingering taste of it. “Don’t worry, I won’t be too hard on your favorite Durand when we meet in the hexagon.”

  “So one of you could get hurt?”

  He shrugged. “One of us could, oui.”

  “Reid!”

  “Reid!” He mimicked her, then kissed her gaping mouth. “Don’t worry, a few stitches. Maximum.”

  She withdrew, her brow lined. Shit. That was insensitive of him given how much she had lost.

  “Kennedy, it’s part of the game. We’re both tough, and people rarely get hurt. I promise.” He was touched that she cared, though more likely she was worried about Bastian’s pretty face.

  And then because he was sick of thinking about his brother, he moved his hand below the water and worked what skills he had—the giving of pleasure.

  “Stairway to Heaven. Sixty-seven!”

  All eyes down for the game of the century: bingo at Larkvale, played twice weekly by the residents. Reid and Bucky had stopped by with tickets as a bribe for Janice, so his dog could sit at his feet while Reid was shafted by elderly grifters.

  “Life begins at forty!”

  “Oh, I have that one.” Edie blobbed a circle over the number with her special pink marker. “You have that one, too.”

  Reid crossed off the number, 40, on his card. He’d been worried that the bingo caller—a woman with a very loud voice, necessary because half the residents were hard of hearing—might bother Bucky, but the pup was taking it in his stride. He lay at Reid’s feet, perfectly content.

  “It could be a ghost,” Edie said.

  Reid thought about that for a second. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Edie gave him some serious side eye. “That’s a very limited viewpoint.”

  “I’m a very limited person.”

  For the fifteen minutes prior to bingo, Reid had listened to Edie’s theories on who was stealing her chocolate bars. He wouldn’t put it past the staff to get light-fingered but it seemed more likely to be another resident. Instead Edie was offering the ghost option.

  “What would a ghost want with a Milky Way?”

  “To be mischievous. That’s what they are, or some of them are. Like leprechauns.”

  “You believe in leprechauns as well?”

  “Who knows their Abba? It’s dan
cing queen. Only seventeen!”

  “Leprechauns are not mythical creatures,” Edie muttered, her eyes never leaving her card. “They’re documented.”

  “But there are none here. Unless it’s a ghost of one.” Ghost leprechaun? Now that gave him chills.

  “I know there are spirits. I see them.”

  “Who do you see?”

  Maybe it was her husband, Kennedy’s grandfather, or perhaps residents of this place long gone. Edie assessed him for worthiness, decided he didn’t pass, and returned to her card.

  “Man alive. Number five!”

  He marked that one off. “Let’s assume for a moment that the thief is part of this earthly plane and hasn’t yet passed to the other side …”

  “That’s why they’re ghosts. Because they’re stuck in the in-between.”

  Munching on candy? “Okay. Assume they’re alive and well and capable of enjoying chocolate—” At her raised eyebrow, he added, “as only real, live, flesh-on-their-bones, non-spirits can.” He suspected she was being difficult on purpose but she was old and had a right to be. When he reached that age, he planned to terrorize the staff of whichever home he ended up in.

  “All the threes. Thirty-three!”

  “So if we make that assumption, then what are we looking at? Who has access to your room? Do you really think the staff would risk their job for a Three Musketeers?”

  “That leaves one of this lot.” She gave a shifty glance right, then left. “Kennedy thinks I’m making up crimes so I can strike solving a mystery off my bucket list.”

  He had heard all about the famed bucket list. “Whatever works, Miss Marple.”

  “You laugh, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “Of course you will. What else do you have to do around here?”

  She sighed, so resigned. “Passes the time until the end.”

  “Good to have a hobby during your final days.”

  She burst out laughing. “Why are you such an asshole during those press conferences? That’s not you at all.”

  “Knock at the door. Number four!”