by Lia Riley
He gaped at the wood pegboard in front of him. Since walking into Breezy’s library, there’d been no sign of the unsettled question that had been nagging him with a near-constant tenacity since the playoffs, the one that twisted his gut in the middle of the night, woke him from a dead sleep, chest sheened in sweat, hands flung in front of his face as if bracing for impact.
Who would he be without hockey? If he quit the game.
For now, an afternoon, he seemed to be granted a reprieve. Instead, he could pretend to be an ordinary guy who helped a pretty woman fix her leaky roof, a nice, simple—ordinary—distraction from his greater problems.
He returned to the hallway and the pretty lady in question waited by the open closet door. He gave her a reassuring smile, ducked inside and lowered the attic ladder.
“Careful,” she called anxiously. “Don’t drown up there.”
“One question.” He climbed up a few rungs and paused, glancing back over one shoulder. “In case anything should happen.”
Her eyes widened. “Okay?”
“I’m dying to know.” He pointed at the front of her shirt and arched a brow. “What’s a 398.2?”
“Huh?” She peered down at her chest, and the phrase I Believe in 398.2. emblazoned across her chest. “Oh. Hah. A little Dewey decimal librarian humor. That’s the area where we shelve fairy tales.”
“I believe in fairy tales,” he mused. Something in her dreamy eyes kept him rooted to the spot. “So what, you’re an old-fashioned romantic, eh?”
“I guess.” She toyed with a stray lock of hair, twisting it absently. “But so far I’ve only kissed frogs. No princes.”
“Well, I’ll do my best to be your knight in shining armor,” he joked, hoisting himself into her attic. Inching along, he followed the wet rafter line to the source of the leak, one big enough to require tar.
She gripped the closet door as he remerged. “How bad is it?” Her words came out tight. “Don’t sugarcoat. Shoot straight. I can take it.”
“You need a handyman more than a knight. A temporary patch will stop the bleeding and last through the storm. Is there a hardware store in the neighborhood?”
She thought a moment. “Norman Tool Supplies is a few blocks away. But you’ve already gone above and beyond and this isn’t your problem. I can take it from here.”
Her confident tone belied her panicked expression.
He took another step closer and inhaled the scent in her shampoo. Sweet, but sexy, no cloying perfumes, just a hint of coconut. An image flashed in his mind. Her, oiled up on a Hawaiian beach with a colorful sarong slung around her hips, draping her curvy waist. The idea caused a low hum in his gut, like a key turning in an ignition. “I’ll be back in fifteen,” he muttered, turning for the door, his pace quick.
For all he overthought his game, his training regime, his whole damn life, for once he didn’t want to ponder his current behavior too hard. This afternoon was venturing beyond the scope of a simple Good Samaritan. But like the state of his head, maybe it was better not to know what the hell was going on.
Chapter Five
Breezy replaced the rapidly filling bucket on her bed with an empty one, trying not to stress over the fact that a sizeable section of her ceiling had crumbled over her pretty pale blue comforter. She headed for her laundry room to dump out the water in the utility sink. If Charles Dickens could be resurrected for the thankless task of penning Breezy’s biography, today’s chapter would no doubt begin with: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Jed West was in her home. Repeat: Jed. West. Was. In. Her. Home.
And not just in her house, but up her attic, and that wasn’t a “wink nudge” euphemism. He’d driven to the neighborhood hardware store and returned with a plastic bag bulging with supplies that suggested, true to his word, he knew exactly what he was doing.
And while she didn’t want to get greedy with miracles, if the universe could allow him to halt the deluge soaking through the roof and save her room from becoming the newest city wetland, the gesture would be mightily appreciated.
That and not have him discover that hidden in her bedroom closet was a horde of Jed West memorabilia. When she’d seen him hunched on the porch through her peephole, her brain had flatlined. She’d sprung into frantic action, whirling through the house, grabbing all her fangirl items. First and foremost, the life-size cardboard cutout of him that her bestie, Margot, had nabbed from a downtown sports bar last month. The poster graced her bedroom door like a teenybop celebrity. The fridge magnets. The mug. The bobblehead plastic toy on the sink windowsill.
“All good.” He emerged from the attic door feet first, gripping the ceiling and lowering himself down in one steady, controlled motion, suggestive of years spent working out on pull-up bars. His sweatshirt rode high over his belly button, revealing a slab of lean, hard-cut abdominal muscles. A warrior’s body, with one thick silvery scar running parallel across his hip, alongside a thick, delicious-looking vein that disappeared into his elastic waistband.
It was overwhelming, enduring this much physical longing.
“That patch should hold for the rest of the storm,” he spoke with no clue that she was on the verge of melting into a pool of lust. “I slapped on two coats of tar.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” She forced her gaze up as he casually tugged down his hoodie, staring past her with a frown.
“Shit. Your bed is soaked.”
It took a moment for anything but the last word to register. She ground her knees together, acutely aware of the damp slickness in her own panties. That ain’t the only thing wet around here.
Jesus, she could host her own creepy standup routine on Comedy Central. Her pink-cheeked reflection beamed back from the full-length mirror on the wall, her eyes were glazed with visible arousal. This was so uncool. And typical Breezy behavior.
On her tombstone it would read: She came. She saw. She made it awkward.
“You should strip off the sheets and position the mattress over the heating vent,” he continued, just as the front door banged with a short sharp rap.
“That must be Neve,” she said, flustered. “She can help me flip it off the baseboards. I’ll take the comforter down to the cleaners to see what they can do. So anyway, thanks. You’ve done so much today. Above and beyond.”
What’re you thinking, crazy? Hurrying Jed West out of here? Her subconscious screeched in Margot’s voice, urging her to throw her body in front of the door. Offer to tap dance. Or lap dance. Or a cup of coffee. Or hell, a blow job.
But her best friend was off doing downward dogs in Baja and no use in the advice department until she returned at summer’s end.
Breezy had no choice but to push the protesting howl aside. Jed West might have spoken at her library and patched her leaky roof, but he was also a hockey god. Surely he had better things to do. Return to Mount Olympus and melt the snowcap with his superhuman hotness. Or enjoy a threesome with nubile goddesses. Or do whatever it is that gods do when not slumming with mere mortals.
“I’m serious. You’re doing me the favor. Look, that rain’s coming down harder by the minute.”
For a god, he seemed in no hurry to escape back to his exalted realm. And he did have a point. The eaves were overflowing outside the corner window with Niagara-like force.
“Honestly it was no big deal. I like odd jobs.” His encouraging smile gave her enough lift to float to the front door. It was almost like he enjoyed being in her orbit, that he was . . . interested.
Which was crazy.
Crazier than crazy.
Almost as crazy that at some point during the past thirty minutes, Jed had begun morphing from some abstract celebrity fantasy to an actual flesh and blood man. A guy who did fix-it jobs and made her laugh even as she drooled over the sinewy muscles in his forearms.
The growing heat between her legs pulsed.
But it wasn’t until she’d turned the front doorknob and stared at her mom and Granny Dee huddled under an umbr
ella stamped with the red pitchfork, the Hellions logo, that it felt like she was in danger of losing her mind.
“Shit!” She slapped a hand over her mouth and braced the doorframe to steady herself. Her legs had gone wobbly, as if the bones evaporated.
Mom sized up her leggings with a dismayed frown. They had an ongoing disagreement on whether or not they were pants. As per usual, Mom’s makeup and outfit were perfect and she looked impossibly beautiful. It wasn’t uncommon for strangers to mistake her for Diane Lane when out in public. “Guess that’s one way to greet guests.”
“S-sorry,” she stammered as they barreled into her living room. Her stomach tumbled in a sickening lurch because right now, right this very second, Jed West was dismantling her bed.
And in the bewildered excitement of his proximity, she’d spaced out about the sex toys stowed under the mattress.
The magic wand.
The rabbit.
The weird-shaped purple one that oscillated.
The personal lubricant.
Despite Mom’s disapproval, shit didn’t come close to conveying the horror circulating through her bloodstream, turning her veins to acid. This was a screwup of epic proportions, even for her.
“What’s the matter, Bumper Butt?” Granny Dee briskly untied her plastic rain bonnet, finger combing her fire-engine red curls back into place. “Sorry to waltz in unannounced, but you know how much I wanted a peek at your new place.” She turned ninety in a few weeks, but moved like a woman in her sixties, as she bustled around the room, making approving noises over the curtain choices and knick-knacks on display.
Breezy ground two fists into her eyes with enough force to see stars. Think. Think. Two of the biggest hockey fanatics in the Denver metro area were pacing the room’s perimeter while fifteen feet away a certifiable Hottie McHotterson was in her bedroom discovering her secret trove of sex toys.
And to think she’d actually believed the day’s low point was ripping the ass out of her superhero suit.
What were her current options? Fake a seizure?
No. She gave her head an inward shake. Too dramatic. Plus, the last thing she needed to compound this situation were paramedics and a fire truck. A fake faint would be better. She could blame the episode on dehydration. Mom was always nagging her to drink more.
But in the end, she was too freaked out to manage anything other than the awful truth. At least the PG version.
She waved them close. “Jed West is here.” She moved her lips like a ventriloquist, trying to keep her voice modulated as low as possible.
“What’s that?” Her mom ignored her gesture, peering at the windows. She moved in short, graceful bursts with the energy of a hummingbird. Breezy always felt like a lumbering walrus in comparison.
“Oh, honey,” Mom made a tut-tut sound. “Look at this grime. Didn’t you promise that you were going to clean the tracks the last time I was here? How many times do I have to tell you that it only takes a sprinkle of baking soda and vinegar. Let it sit for five minutes and the gunk will wipe right off—”
“Enough with the tracks. Huddle up and listen.” Screw her mom’s anal clean freak obsessions. “Jed West is here,” she breathed.
“Huh?” Granny Dee stuck a hand behind her ear. “God hates a mumbler.”
A hard thud emanated from the bedroom. No doubt the queen-size mattress getting turned on its side. Stars danced on the edge of her vision.
Mom’s eyes widened behind her tortoiseshell frames as she blew back her bangs. “Who’s back there?”
“I’m worried about her coloring.” Granny Dee pinched Breezy’s cheeks. “It’s this lousy weather. Where do you keep the whiskey? A nice hot toddy will warm you up.”
Breezy strained her ears but silence reigned from the bedroom. At least Jed hadn’t bolted out of the room, arms windmilling in horror at her sexual depravity. Maybe they’d be adults about this. After all, masturbating was a normal part of life, a common to-do item on the ol’ weekly routine.
Shave legs.
Moisturize.
Use sunscreen.
Buy milk and eggs.
Get rocks off.
Studies showed it was better than melatonin for sleep.
But still . . . that didn’t mean she wanted to discuss her vibrator preferences or lube choices with the actual embodiment of these dirty fantasies.
Panic simmered in her stomach. This was all so awful that it couldn’t be happening.
Bump. Another hard thud. Followed by the snickity-snick roll of something plastic across the hardwood.
“There. I hear it again!” Mom clutched her purse to her chest, eyes wide. “Someone is in your bedroom.”
Her mother had a gift for stating the obvious.
“Is it a man?” Granny Dee rubbed her hands with undisguised glee.
“Of course not!” Mom gave a disparaging shake of the head. “This is Breezy, not Margot.”
She didn’t mean those words as an insult. Still, Breezy flinched. She wasn’t a play-the-field girl like her bestie who had a different guy lined up for a date every single Saturday night. From the look of her friend’s Instagram account, her time in Mexico consisted of doing a lot of sun salutations and a lot, a lot, of very muscled surfers.
Breezy had never played the field. Her only serious boyfriend had been Rory and he’d strung her along for years. Whenever she pushed to set an official date for the wedding, he’d mumble that his job pressures were too high. That he couldn’t be the provider he wanted to be. A change of subject always came fast and furious. Whenever she had a problem at work, he’d dismiss it, but if he had an issue then stop the presses, this was a public emergency, ladies and gentlemen. He’d text her all day, no matter what was going on or how busy her schedule.
She made room. Accommodated. Because isn’t that what people do in functional adult relationships?
Except two people had to do the giving. In Rory’s case, she’d given and given and given until . . .
God. Any wonder that she despised The Giving Tree?
Once Rory’s career was poised to take off with his long-anticipated promotion, she booked a dinner at a fancy bistro to toast the tomorrows that could finally become today. Instead, he had broken the news over the second glass of merlot. The promotion was tied to a move to the Boston office. She had just started to wrap her head around what it meant to leave her family and summon enthusiasm for New England, when he dropped the second bomb.
The one where she wasn’t included in the relocation package.
His words exploded over her like lobbed grenades.
I need to buckle down and have space. Put me first for once. Focus on my career.
Blah. Blah. Fuck you. As if she’d ever taken up space in his world.
But to pour salt in the stinging wound, once he moved, Rory had met someone. Another lawyer. They went on a skiing vacation. Traveled to Iceland. Posed in the fall colors and hammed it up in a witch shop in Salem.
For a while, she’d stalked his Facebook account like a midnight masochist. She wasn’t proud. But he’d dated this chick for six months before posting news of the elopement. They’d driven to New York City and gotten married in spring in Central Park, posing for selfies afterward on top of the Empire State Building.
Turned out Rory wasn’t dragging his feet on marriage. Just marriage to her. Breezy had been the safe backup choice, as comforting as a well-worn pair of UGG boots.
Ugh was right.
“I know! Honey, focus!” Mom seized her shoulders and shook. “Where’s that pepper spray that I bought you last Christmas?”
“Stop.” She twisted free of her mother’s grip. “There isn’t a burglar. I had a problem with the roof. It leaked. It’s getting fixed.”
“All this excitement makes me want to pee.” Granny Dee shuffled toward the bathroom. “And to sneak peek at your handyman.”
When her grandma’s screech followed a few seconds later, Breezy squeezed her eyes shut. Granny Dee had found Jed West.
The only hope was that he wasn’t double fisting two lipstick vibrators.
They’d been on sale, two for one, which seemed like a deal at the time.
Granny lurched back into the room, eyes the size of tea saucers. “There is . . . there is . . . there is . . .”
“Sit down. I said sit. I’ve got your blood pressure meds right here in your pocketbook.”
Jed West appeared hot on Granny’s heels and the sight took Breezy’s breath.
How did he go through life looking like that? Did he ever get stuck ogling his reflection, transfixed by that face, those eyes, that chin. A modern day Narcissus?
Of course not.
He seemed comfortable and casual in his own skin. It must be like living in Paris or Venice, someplace where tourists showed up and fired off five hundred thousand photos and oohed and ahhed while locals went about their daily business.
“Hope I didn’t frighten you,” he said to Granny Dee in his deep voice.
Mom screamed. Not one of those Beatles fan crying and jumping up and down moments. More like opening a closet door only to discover ET nestled among the clothes requesting to phone home.
“Granny, sit in the rocking chair. I’m going to fetch you a glass of water. Mom. Take the love seat,” she ordered with a confidence that she in no way felt.
But someone had to take charge and it wouldn’t do to add two heart attacks to the cluster. She quickly filled Mom and Granny in on the bare details of what had happened, Neve bringing Jed to the library as a surprise special guest. The jacket theft (minus the accidental mooning). The roof leaking. Turning, she found his gaze on her. “Jed?” It still sounded so weird to speak his name.
“Yeah?” He answered like it was normal.
Because it is his name, Stupid.
She blinked twice. “Mind helping me in the kitchen?”
While he might be a god, he was also slumming it among mortals and her family looked ready to stroke out. It was all hands on deck.
“Sure.” He followed her into the tiny galley kitchen. When searching for a home to buy, she had craved an open plan living and kitchen area, but right now was grateful for the ability to shut the door. She leaned against it and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Okay. Brace yourself. Some of my family members happen to be pretty big Hellions fans.”
