by K. A. Tucker
“Hey, Brenna.” He seems to have sobered up almost immediately.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Visiting your mom. I had a rough day and I wanted to see her.”
“Back to sleep, Brenna.” With my hands on her shoulders, I try to gently steer her toward her room.
She wriggles free, wandering over to the couch, the bottoms of her pajamas slightly too large and sagging in that adorable way. She studies his cast. “Does your leg still hurt?”
He frowns, following her gaze. “Not as much as it used to. I’m trying not to think about it, though.”
“Why? Does it make you sad?”
He nods.
“You should think about things that make you happy. That’s what I do when I’m sad.”
It’s jarring, hearing words I’ve said over and over again repeated in her child’s voice.
Brett regards her for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “What do you think about?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “My dog, Stella. I don’t have her yet, but I will one day.”
A smile slowly stretches across Brett’s face. “A dog named Stella would make me happy, too. What else?”
I should be stopping this, getting her back to bed—God knows it’ll take forever now that her brain is firing—but it’s impossible not to simply stand back and watch the way Brett is with her, so genuine and natural.
“Umm . . . Uncle Jack . . . ,” she picks through her thoughts, “ice cream, books, my dolls, waffles . . .”
Brett’s trying hard not to laugh. “In that order?”
“Yeah. Oh,” she giggles, “I almost forgot, my mom.”
“Yeah, she makes me happy, too.” His gaze flickers to me, a secretive glint in them. “But you should get back to bed. It’s late.”
“Say good night, Brenna.”
She sways with a touch of hesitation before climbing onto the couch and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Good night.”
Brett stalls, unable to hide the momentary surprise from his brow. But when he curls an arm around her body, cocooning her against him, I’m pretty sure my heart is about to explode in my chest.
It takes me a moment to gather myself and usher her back to bed. Thankfully, she doesn’t argue when I tell her I can’t leave Brett alone. She simply rolls onto her side and closes her eyes.
I emerge to find Brett on his feet, maneuvering around the coffee table on his crutches. He’s heading toward the door. “So, when do kids actually start sleeping through the night?”
I sigh, trying to hide my disappointment that he’s leaving. “When you parent them properly. I’ve created a monster. But I’ve never minded it. Until now.” I step closer to smooth my hand over the top of his T-shirt, offset just a touch. “It’s probably a good thing, though, that she got up when she did.”
“I didn’t come here, looking for that, I swear. I don’t want you to think that.”
“I don’t think that at all.” But what must Brett think of me? That I would so easily climb onto his lap, so quickly press against him. “I’m not usually so . . . It’s been a really long time for me.” I blurt out. Since I’ve been with a man. Since I’ve trusted a man.
He says nothing for a long moment, simply stroking my hair off my face with a gentle touch. “How long?”
“Since Brenna’s father.”
His brows lift in mild surprise.
“What?”
“No. It’s not bad.” He takes a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have come, not when I’ve been drinking.”
My hand drifts to his chest to rub against his curves. “I’m glad you came.” And more than anything right now, I wish he could stay. But that’s not an option, not with Brenna.
He seizes my fingers, holding them over his heart, letting me savor the strong, steady thrum. “I should go.”
“Okay.” My body still hums with the thrill of being pressed against him.
He leans down to kiss me, his soft, wet lips coaxing mine to move with them in a languid, intimate dance. Slowly, he pulls away, just enough to settle his forehead against mine, our noses grazing each other. “I really should go.”
My giggle is playful as I take a step back.
“And don’t you dare get rid of that.” His gaze drifts over my worn nightshirt, stalling on my chest before dipping farther down to study my thighs.
I blush furiously. “You really should go.”
His face splits into a grin.
“Here, let me get the door for you.” With my hand on the doorknob, I hesitate. I don’t want to remind him of it, but I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten. “I’m sorry about the news today. But nothing’s for sure yet.”
His jaw tenses with his nod.
Leaning in, he leaves one last, lingering kiss on my lips. “Night, Cath.”
“Night.”
I watch from the window as the taillights of the SUV disappear down the lane.
And I can’t keep myself from smiling.
Chapter 23
“Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite sister?” Jack grins at me from his side of the black SUV before letting his gaze drift out the window to the city that approaches. “But don’t tell Emma. I’ll probably need a free lawyer one day.”
“Why does he have a gun, anyway?” Brenna asks loudly, and it takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Donovan. She’s been glued to the Disney movie on the little TV screen since we left home, headphones channeling the audio.
“For safety. He’s also a bodyguard,” Jack says.
“What?” she yells, then grins and pulls her headphones off. “What did you say?”
He repeats himself, adding, “The other guys had guns, too, remember?”
“They were bodyguards? I thought they were just workers.”
“They worked at being bodyguards.”
“Oh.” I can tell she wants to ask more, but, quickly distracted by the movie, she slides her headphones on again and goes back to watching.
“You gotta admit, this is pretty sweet.” Jack’s trying to play it cool, but his long jean-clad leg is bobbing with excitement.
It is nice, I silently admit, to be picked up and taken all the way to downtown Philadelphia in a nice, clean, roomy SUV, not having to worry about the city congestion or parking or navigating the one-way streets. I’ve been to Philadelphia maybe a handful of times and not usually right downtown. That’s where Brett lives, in a condo along the Delaware River, about a ten-minute drive from the arena according to Donovan.
I’m dying to see his place. A home can tell you a lot about a person. My home would tell you that I don’t have a lot of money but I take pride in finding the possibilities in the unexpected. A rickety library cart for a side table. A worn and weathered door frame that I turned into a standing mirror. A paint-splattered wooden ladder that Keith helped me mount horizontally onto the wall to use for books.
Many times over the past weeks, I’ve wondered what Brett’s world looks like. Where he lives, where he sleeps, where he likes to unwind. Soon, I’ll know.
“Why is he wearing a suit?” Brenna suddenly hollers.
I meet Donovan’s eyes in the rearview mirror for just a flash before he shifts them back to the highway and the sea of taillights, but I don’t catch a reaction, one way or another.
I lift one side of her headphones. “I guess he likes wearing suits. Stop yelling, please.”
“You should have heard Dad today, when I told him. I think he was bitter he didn’t get an invite, too,” Jack says.
“He’s getting season tickets for the next twenty-five years. Plus, I couldn’t very well bring Dad and not Mom.” And there’s no way in hell I’m subjecting Brett to that, yet.
“Just think, if you and Madden ever get hitched, you could probably get tickets to any Cup game you want.”
I shoot a glare at my brother, acutely aware that Donovan can hear us, even though he’s pretending not to listen. I would die if he went and told Bre
tt that I was talking marriage on the way over. “You’ve been reading too many fairy tales with Brenna. No one’s marrying anyone.”
The radio fills the silence for a dragging moment.
“But imagine if you did marry—ow!” Jack rubs the spot behind his ear where I just flicked him. After a few seconds he mumbles softly, “Still my favorite sister.”
“Right.” I sigh, letting my gaze drift out over the sea of buildings that we’re approaching. This was supposed to be my life. Living in a big city, going to college, having a cool job. Seven years later, I’m still in Balsam with no life goals beyond paying my bills each month and making sure Brenna is cared for. I’m beginning to fear that I’ll turn a corner one day and find half my life gone—Brenna grown up and moving out, and me, still in that little cottage rental behind the pool hall and serving greasy breakfasts and Leroy’s famous burgers. I can only regret so much, though, because this city world I dreamed for myself didn’t include Brenna.
I frown at the horizon ahead of us. “Are they calling for rain later?”
“There’s a big storm system moving in,” Donovan replies, his voice a deep rumble. “Supposed to last into the night.”
I eye the dark clouds. “I’m glad you’ll be driving, then.”
Brenna leans over. “Mommy?”
“Yes?”
She glances at Donovan and then back to me, to whisper, “Why doesn’t he have a neck?” Only it’s not a whisper because of those damn headphones.
Jack covers his bark of laughter with a strangled choking sound.
My face burns as I shoot her that look—the one that says, “Don’t ask questions like that”—and she ducks her head. When I finally dare glance ahead, I see Donovan smiling.
We pull up beside a service elevator in the underground parking garage of Brett’s building. A man with a handlebar mustache and a kind smile is waiting there with a special key. He introduces himself as the manager and spends the next twenty-four floors talking odds of the Leafs winning the cup with Jack, who of course knows every stat on every player. I glean what I can so I don’t seem completely clueless—Toronto and LA are playing, they’re tied two games apiece, and Toronto hasn’t won a Cup in fifty years—and then I let my attention drift to my surroundings.
Brett’s building is basically what I expected—new and luxurious. Outside, it’s one of those all-glass high-rises, towering over the surrounding buildings with the river in easy sight. Inside, it’s sleek and modern, with long, well-lit hallways lined with extra-tall mahogany doors on either side.
As we reach the end of the hall, Donovan rings a doorbell.
“You’re squeezing my hand too tight!” Brenna whines.
“Sorry.” I take a deep breath to try and calm the butterflies thrashing in my stomach.
The door opens to a smiling Richard. He shifts back, giving us room to step into the simple all-white foyer. “We’ll give you a call later,” he says to Donovan, dismissing him.
Someone shuffling sounds from inside.
“Just stay put! I’ll bring them in,” Richard hollers, winking at Brenna and taking Jack’s hand in a firm handshake. “Good to see you again, Jack. You know, last we talked I didn’t realize you played for the Gophers.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack’s cheeks flush. I know what he’s thinking—for Richard to know that, Brett must have said so, which means his idol was talking about Jack.
“Go on in, both of you. Brett’s just over there, resting on the couch.” He smiles at me. “I’m so glad to see you again, Catherine. Meryl will be happy to hear that you’re here.” There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. I can’t read it entirely, but I’m fairly certain it’s positive. At least I hope it is. I didn’t quite realize until just now how much it matters that Brett’s parents approve of this thing between Brett and me.
I drop my voice. “How is he?” Brett and I have talked every day, mostly via text, but our conversations have been light. Flirty. I haven’t broached the subject beyond the ambiguous “How are you feeling, today,” to which he hasn’t elaborated beyond “alive.” As if that’s all he has to hold on to, in all of this.
Richard shrugs. “He’s trying. It doesn’t help being cooped up. I’ve tried to keep his mind busy with our charity stuff, and I managed to get him out a few times. You know, to lift weights at the gym, or just enjoy the good weather by the river, but . . . I’m glad you’re here.” Ushering me in with a hand laid ever so gently on my shoulder, he leads me around the corner.
My breath catches at the sight of Brett, stretched out on a brown leather sectional, his leg propped up on pillows on top of a rectangular coffee table.
His intense gaze locks on me and he says nothing for three . . . four . . . five seconds before giving his head a small shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up to meet you at the door. Or get dressed.” He gestures at his long, lean body clad in a soft black Flyers T-shirt and black track pants.
And here I was, just thinking how appealing he looks, his hair falling back in a natural wave, his jawline hard and shapely, his blue eyes genuine and bright. The scar across his forehead is impossible to miss and yet I barely notice it. “It’s okay. You have a pretty good excuse.”
This man wants me.
And the last time I saw him, he was kissing me with abandon, leaving my lips tender for days, and the rest of my body envious. I’m desperate to feel the press of his mouth against me once again. But I stay where I am, whether it’s because of the audience, my impressionable daughter, or I’m suddenly feeling shy around him.
“My mom bought that for today.” Brenna points at the short black jumpsuit I grabbed at Threads just yesterday, after having admired it on the mannequin while shopping last weekend. The silk material is soft against my skin; the style loose but flattering—a one-piece slip on, cinched at the waist by a silk tie, the top sleeveless with a deep-V cut into both front and back, the shorts showing off a lot of thigh but not too much. It’s classy and stylish, something my wardrobe sorely lacks.
I feel my face redden as Brett does a lightning-quick scan, stalling over my bare legs, before turning back to give Brenna his attention. He smiles. “She looks very nice.”
“Yeah. She does,” Brenna says in that casual way of hers. “Did you know that my uncle plays hockey, too?”
“I did. We met last week, remember?” Brett reaches forward to shake hands with my brother, who’s desperately trying to play it cool.
Brenna wanders over to a glass case in the corner of the room that houses Brett’s plaques and trophies, her backpack still slung over her shoulders. Brett’s eyes are on her the entire time, an unreadable look in them. “Did you win all these?”
“I did.”
She nods slowly to herself, and then her rich brown eyes roam over the rest of the living room. I let mine roam along with hers.
Brett’s condo is nothing like I imagined.
“Modest” would be the word I might use for it. It’s a corner unit and double the size of my house, easily, but I assumed it would be bigger. Also, it’s sparse. The glass case is really the only personal touch I see. The place is simple and clean. The main area is open with a high ceiling over the living room. A loft overlooks us, with an industrial-looking set of metal stairs leading up. Everything is light—white walls with only two pictures hanging on them, soft gray curtains to block out an impressive view of the river, should they be pulled closed. To be honest, it looks like Brett just moved in. Or that living here is only temporary.
Richard heads into the adjoining sizable kitchen—with white marble countertops and stainless steel appliances—and opens the fridge. “I’m gonna order pizza in a minute. Can I offer anyone drinks? Water, beer, wine . . . I was sent out for some SunnyD for the little lady.”
Brenna’s face squishes up. “The orange stuff? That’s for my mom.”
Oh, Brenna. My face barely had time to cool down.
The sound of Brett’s laugh carrying through the place almost makes up for my
embarrassment.
“Where’s your bathroom?” So I can drown myself in the toilet.
Brett points to the hall on the far side. “First door.”
“Get your coloring kit out of your backpack,” I instruct Brenna on my way past her, adding in a whisper, “and stop telling him all my secrets.”
Brett’s chuckle follows me all the way to a small but clean bathroom. The décor is as generic as the rest of the condo. Not that I wouldn’t take Brett’s place in a heartbeat. I would just put some personality into it.
Then again, he is a guy, I remind myself. A guy who travels a lot and is probably not sitting in Philly all summer in the off-season.
I do a quick check of myself, thankful that Lou let me take off a few hours early from work today. The beachy waves that Misty taught me how to put in my hair with the curling iron are holding well, as is the subtle smoky eye makeup I worked on for almost a half hour.
Brenna’s little voice chirps from the living room. “I’ve seen you on the TV.”
“Well, I am on TV, sometimes.”
“No, but like all the time. We have this thing. If you press the red button, it’ll tape what you’re watching onto these big black tapes.”
Oh, no.
“A DVR?” I hear Brett ask.
“Yeah. I mean, no.”
“Sounds more like a VCR,” Richard offers.
“People still use those?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my sister is ghetto,” I hear Jack mutter.
I leave the bathroom in a rush.
“My mom taped a lot of shows with you on them. She watches them every single night after I go to—”
“Brenna!” I exclaim rather loudly, cutting her off, my cheeks burning bright. I spear Jack with a glare for not putting a muzzle on her sooner, but he grins wider, tipping his bottle of beer in the air toward me. Bastard. He knows I won’t pull a Hildy Wright and take it away.
Brenna looks up from her spot on the couch next to Brett, her coloring kit scattered on the coffee table. “Yeah, Mommy?”
I sigh. She’s just so innocent, I can’t be angry with her. “Make sure you don’t accidentally bump Brett’s leg, okay? You’ll hurt him.”
