by K. A. Tucker
He freezes, then shifts away.
And I’m left dizzy with anticipation. It takes a few moments to calm my breathing. “Come and sit.”
“Good idea.” He hobbles over and practically falls into the love seat, pushing his crutches to the side with a quiet “I hate these fucking things.” They land on the floor with a noisy clatter.
I wince, my eyes darting to my bedroom, where Brenna sleeps.
“Shit.” He closes his eyes and drops his head back. “I’m sorry.”
Yeah. Brett’s been drinking, and by the looks of it, drinking a lot.
“It’s okay,” I assure him, but I edge over to close the bedroom door all the way.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a beer or anything, would you?”
“As a matter of fact, I have the perfect thing for you.” I head to the kitchen to grab a tall glass of water. I do have that last can of Keith’s beer in the fridge, but I’m not about to hand it to Brett right now.
“Here.”
He smiles as he reaches for the glass, his hand grasping my fingers in the process.
“I’m just going to change into—”
“No. Don’t.” His gaze skates over my bare legs as he releases a soft exhale, tugging on the blanket to guide me down.
I settle onto the couch next to him, squeezing myself in next to his splayed legs, and quietly watch him drink, the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The tension radiating off him.
“What happened today?”
He doesn’t answer, but the sheen coating his eyes, the way he blinks several times, answers me.
“You know you can tell me anything, right? I would never say a word to anyone.”
His muscular chest lifts and drops with a deep breath. “My career could be over.”
“But . . .” I frown as the shock of his admission settles over me, as I study the cast on his leg. “Hockey players break bones all the time. Isn’t there that one guy who broke his back?” I’m racking my brain to remember what Jack and my dad were arguing about the other night. “I can’t remember his name, but he played again.”
“The official statement is that they are remaining hopeful but my doctor isn’t happy with how it’s healing so far.”
“What does that even mean? It’s only been a month.”
“It was a bad break. Several breaks, actually.” Brett stares ahead vacantly. “He said that I should prepare myself for the possibility that I won’t be able to play like I used to. Maybe not at all. I could be walking with a limp for the rest of my life.” His voice is full of raw emotion. “I figured I’d be playing for another ten years, but here I am, twenty-six and fucking finished. If I can’t play hockey, I don’t know what the hell else I’m going to do with my life.” His hand lies limp in his lap. “I keep telling people how I’m thankful to be alive and there’s more to life than just this game, but right now . . . I feel like my life is over.”
My heart throbs for him.
He sounds so lost.
“Does anyone else know?”
“My parents. And now you.”
I struggle to find the right thing to say. I don’t want to simply dismiss the doctor’s words as premature because that won’t ease his worry. Sure, I could point out that he’s in a good place financially. But I don’t think this is about money at all. It’s that his entire reality, everything that he has worked so hard for, could be taken from him.
I finally settle on “We’re not going to give up hope just yet.”
He grunts softly but says nothing, and I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing. But what do you say to a world-class athlete who has worked his entire life to get to where he is, only to have it all end so abruptly? I guess the same thing you say to a doctor who loses use of his hands, or an artist who loses her eyesight.
“I’m so sorry, Brett. If I could fix it for you, I would.”
I get a solemn nod in return.
I take the glass from him and settle it on the coffee table, and then I pull his hand into mine, flipping it over so I can draw my finger along the creases. I used to do this same thing with Scott’s hands. I remember Scott’s hands being smooth and delicate, marred only by the occasional leftover oil paint.
Brett’s hands are rough and calloused. His left index finger is slightly bent, as if he broke it and it didn’t set properly. They look like hands that have worked hard to help him get to where he is today.
Suddenly, he grasps my hand, turning it to study the lead smeared over my fingers with a frown.
“It’s pencil.”
“From what?” His gaze drifts to my sketchbook, sitting open on the coffee table. “What is that?”
“Nothing. Just . . . something for Brenna.” I lift the cover with my toe, shutting it.
When I turn back, I find Brett staring hard at me. “What?”
“You look incredible tonight.”
I can’t help the unattractive snort or the grin that follows. “You must be incredibly drunk then.”
Finally, he smiles. The first real smile that I’ve seen since he arrived, a dazzling smile that has the power to turn me into a giggling teenager if I allow it to.
A long moment of silence hangs in my little house, as he studies me, as I sense thoughts racing through his mind that he doesn’t give voice to.
Finally, he points toward the coffee table. “Tell me about that.”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a sketchbook.”
Leaning forward, he collects the book in his lap and begins flipping through the pages. “The Gingerbread House . . . ?” He studies the old sales listing I kept and tucked into the inside cover. “Seriously, what is this?”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Just a daydream that Brenna and I have had for a while.” I tell him about the house down on Jasper Lane with the twinkling Christmas lights. “It’s kind of silly, but it got me drawing again after so many years, so that’s something.”
“That’s what you want to do? Own an inn?”
I’m struggling to focus on anything besides his left hand, settled on my thigh, his palm hot against my bare skin, his fingertips splayed, his reach wide. I silently thank God for small miracles—namely, the miracle that I shaved my legs tonight. “It wasn’t even about an inn when I first started this. It was a way for me to bring it to life for Brenna. I wanted to show her how to dream. But then the idea grew on me. I think it’d make an amazing little place for tourists to stay.” Despite my complicated history with Balsam, my adoration for Jasper Lane has remained unblemished. If I lived there, I feel like I could have an entirely different life.
“Tourism’s big around here in the summer, isn’t it?” I’m waiting for a hint of mockery in his tone, but there’s nothing so far.
“Not just the summer. The local wineries and the festivals draw a good crowd in the fall. And then there’s the winter, with the ski hills. I’ve overheard customers at Diamonds complaining that rooms can be hard to come by, even when you call a year in advance, especially over Christmas. Balsam is really pretty at the holidays.”
He pauses on the full sketch I did from memory of what the house looks like in December, the windows trimmed with big wreaths and crimson bows and tiny white lights. I even used vibrant emerald and ruby-red pencil crayons to add a dash of color. “This is amazing. You’re really talented.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you ever think of going to school for this?”
“For a while, yeah.” Until I dropped out. Shame bubbles inside me. Still possibly my biggest regret is walking down the steps of my high school that last day, knowing I wouldn’t be back. “It’s hard to get into college with a GED, though.” I keep my eyes on my sketchbook and silently pray that he doesn’t judge me too harshly for that.
I feel Brett’s gaze flicker to me. “He was your art teacher, wasn’t he?”
I nod.
“And that’s why you stopped drawing for all those years?”
Another nod.
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Brett slowly flips through the pages, pausing on the small den that I’ve filled with little tables, adorned with tiny English teacups and white porcelain plates. “Breakfast room?” He reads the title.
“It faces east.”
“The morning sun.” His finger draws over the yellow-tinged rays that pour through the window.
“It’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
He keeps flipping, stalling over the conservatory off the back that I’ve sketched, filled with lush green plants and a seating area for reading in the afternoon.
“I added that in.”
“And this?”
“There’s a two-bedroom in-law suite on the left-hand side. That’s where Brenna and I would live.” I flip over the page to show the husky sitting in its doghouse. “With Stella, of course.”
“Of course.” Brett smiles as he keeps going through page after page, of bedrooms and front foyers, and parlors that I’ve spent hours designing, nothing but intrigue displayed on his face.
“This one’s my favorite.”
He stops on the two-page sketch of the room on the third floor.
“I love all the slanted ceilings, and there’s this giant skylight here. And you can see the lake from the window. I don’t know if I’d actually want to rent that part. I think I’d keep it for Brenna and me. There’s a separate staircase at the back of the house that takes you all the way up.”
He slides his finger over all the built-in bookcases I’ve drawn. “So, when were you thinking of buying this place?”
I laugh. “I doubt the new owners have any plans for selling it.” Last I heard, a wealthy older couple with a large family from the city bought it.
He reaches the last page, closing the cover gently before setting it back down on the coffee table. “It’s good to have dreams. Without dreams, we wouldn’t have goals. And without goals . . . what’s the point of living?” His head falls back, and it stays there, as he stares at my ceiling, his thoughts clearly somewhere far away. There’s an air of melancholy hanging over him that I wish I could dissolve for him.
I turn and rest my head next to him, admiring the sharp curve of his throat and the sculpt of his lips for a long moment. Every inch of him is perfect. “I was a high school dropout, sleeping on a couch in my friend’s apartment with no job, when I found out I was pregnant. I thought my life was over. I regret a lot of things, but I can’t imagine my life without Brenna. She’s the good that came from all of it.” As much as I love his hand exactly where it is on my thigh, now I lift it to my mouth, pressing my lips against the back of it. Desperate to console him in any way that I can. “Things have a way of working out. They will work out for you, Brett. Even if the doctor is right, and you can’t play anymore. Something good will come from the bad. It always does. That’s how life balances itself out. That’s how people keep going.”
“You came from it.” His head rolls to the side, to face me, his glazed eyes drifting over my features, his mouth so close that with just a slight lean, his lips would be grazing mine. “My feelings have never been just about you saving my life. Not since the moment I met you.” The words are a beat deep within my chest, his voice having dropped so low. “When I’m looking for a way to say thank you, I send flowers, I give a hug. I don’t drive myself crazy thinking about—” His words cut off with a sharp inhale, his hand within mine tensing slightly. Closing his eyes, he slowly breathes out. Finally, he meets my gaze again, his eyes raw and heated, his breaths ragged. “This has never been about gratitude, Catherine.”
I’m having a hard time breathing.
“Tell me you believe me.”
“I believe—”
He steals my last word with his mouth. My brain struggles to process what’s happening. There’s no mistaking it for simple friendly affection this time. Brett Madden is kissing me. Or trying to kiss me, because I’m frozen.
And when the shock finally wears off, I accept that I want this—and Brett—more than I’ve ever wanted anyone before.
He begins to pull away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I press forward, stealing his words as swiftly as he took mine, my fingers reaching for his cheek, the lightest coating of stubble tickling my skin. And just as I was frozen a moment ago, he now is, too. For a fleeting second I’m afraid I’ve missed my chance, I’ve screwed things up.
And then he moves in quickly, his hand grasping the back of my head, his tongue slipping along my lips, coaxing my mouth open. Darting in to lick me with expert strokes, the flavor of beer teasing my taste buds. I sense an urgency in him, as if he needs this. And maybe he does after the sobering news he received today. That he thought to come here, that he needed to come here . . .
I silently allow myself to accept that this man truly wants me, for however long that may be.
I’ve lost my grip on my blanket, now pooling half on the floor, my ratty nightshirt climbing high on my hip as I press against Brett’s warm body. That body that I’ve been dying to touch. My hand begins to drift and explore, shyly at first, from his cheek to his neck, my fingers trailing along his hard curves as he kisses me deeply and with complete abandon. His breath hitches as I reach his chest, pressing my palm against where his heart now beats frantically.
I remember the feel of high school boys, their skin still soft, their bodies still developing.
I remember Scott Philips’, a man’s body, with definition and a coating of hair over his chest.
Brett feels altogether different, unreal. A sculpture of honed muscle and hard work flexing beneath my fingertips.
He breaks free just long enough to give me that look . . . that heated gaze that sends a thrill through my body and wipes all thoughts clear from my head. I don’t actually say the word “okay,” but he must be able to sense it because in one surprisingly quick movement, Brett has hooked a hand under my knee and is hoisting me with little effort onto his lap to straddle him.
“Your leg,” I whisper against his mouth, afraid I’ll hurt him.
“Fuck my leg,” he growls, pulling me close against him, stretching my thighs wide, until my chest is flush against his and his arms are wound around me, and I can feel him hard against me. God, it’s been so long since I felt that.
And every day of every year of being without has been worth it, for this very moment with Brett.
His hands stretch across my back, fingers splayed, holding me tight, making me feel slight within their impressive span. I can’t help the intentional way I grind my hips, the deep throb beginning to stir within me. That earns a soft curse from his lips. A simple, common curse that is so sensual coming from him, his voice vibrating deep within me, making me moan against his mouth.
He tugs at my nightshirt, the hem bunched within his fists. “This is the softest thing I’ve ever felt,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I should have thrown it out about three years ago,” I whisper.
So smoothly, his fingers slip beneath my nightshirt just as his lips slide from mine, trailing along the hard line of my jaw, my breath trembling as I feel the first strokes of heat skating across my neck. “Don’t. I’m enjoying what I can see through it.”
I inhale sharply as his calloused hands skate upward in one smooth, agonizingly slow stroke, tickling my rib cage and memorizing the flat plane of my stomach.
I swallow against my self-conscious worry that my breasts aren’t enough for him—I’ve seen the kinds of girls he dates—but still I tense the moment his thumbs draw over them, slowly outlining their subtle shape.
He must notice my wariness because his hands pause where they are, as if to allow me to get used to his touch. “You’re perfect. You know that, right?” When I don’t answer, he pulls back, just far enough to meet my eyes, his nose nuzzling against mine affectionately. “I wouldn’t want to change one single thing about you. Ever.”
My heart pounds in my chest. He must be able to feel it with his hand against me, the pad of his thumb now moving again, sliding softly
back and forth over my nipple.
I catch his lips and we’re locked again, his hands drifting, circling around to my back, gaining a strong hold of my body so he can pull me tighter. I let my own hands explore again, more confidently this time, down that strong, thick neck that leads to an even more impressive collarbone peeking through his shirt. I fist his shirt as he fisted mine, wishing it were off, wishing I could feel his warm skin against mine.
I break free of his mouth and lean back far enough to push his shirt up, exposing the ridges of his hard stomach and chest, heaving and caving with each labored breath. “Oh, my God. You’re . . .” I take in his golden skin, speckled with goose bumps, his nipples peaked. He is the most perfect human being I’ve ever seen, and he wants me.
His grip on my hips tightens as my eyes follow that small trail of dark hair from his belly button, downward, imagining my fingers slipping below his belt. Even if I couldn’t already feel him against me, the ridge in his jeans is blatantly obvious.
I press my hips into him again, a moan escaping me with the delicious friction.
“Cath.” Warning shines in his eyes, his breathing shaky.
I grind against him again, the ache deep inside me so consuming, I no longer care that we’re on my couch in my living room, or that this may have gotten out of hand.
“Dammit . . .” His fingers coil around the sides of my panties, tugging on them threateningly.
“Mommy?”
The one word, spoken in a sleepy voice, is like a cold bucket of ice water dumped over both of us.
Brett’s fingers loose their grip a split second before I scuttle off his lap, his shirt falling to cover him just as Brenna staggers from her room, rubbing balled-up fists over her eyes.
“Shit,” I whisper between ragged breaths, hoping she’s still too drowsy to process what she might have seen. Hoping I can get her back to sleep before she fully wakes. “I’ll be back in a minute.” I climb off the couch.
“Brett?” She asks sleepily.
I sigh. Great.
