Hooked on You

by Kate Meader

  “Excuse me?”

  Franky blinked big behind her glasses. “She was making us scrambled eggs and then she got this look on her face. Kind of like Dad used to get in the morning. Then she ran out.”

  “Hungover,” pronounced Caitriona without even looking up from her cereal bowl.

  This seemed a bit of a stretch, but who was Violet to argue with the logic of children who’d witnessed their alcoholic father worshipping the porcelain god? Maybe the baby Gorgons had driven Harper to overimbibe last night.

  She surveyed the kitchen CSI-style. Half-scrambled eggs in a pan, untoasted bread in the toaster, a full pot of freshly brewed coffee. Conclusion: someone had started breakfast and hadn’t finished. Astounding, Sherlock. She grabbed a cup off the phallus-shaped mug tree, smiling in memory at this misbegotten product of one of the Chase sisters’ awkward sister bonding nights, and poured herself a cup of joe.

  “You guys watch the game last night?”

  “Yeah,” Franky said with a long-suffering sigh. “Dad didn’t play as well as he did in the first game, but Remy and Cade were awesome.”

  Violet’s thoughts exactly. St. James should have performed better, but he was in a weird spot in his life, worried about his ex and his kids. She should probably go check on Harper, but she felt odd about leaving the girls on their own. Maybe they were used to it. They seemed like self-sufficient humans.

  “So, what did you do with Harper on your visit? Anything fun?”

  “We watched Wonder Woman.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Franky had a curious smile on her face. “Harper said it had important lessons for female empowerment, but by the third viewing, she didn’t seem so thrilled about it.”

  Violet couldn’t help her laugh. “Strange.”

  “Yeah. Strange.”

  What a cool kid. Must have gotten it from her mom, because St. James had never demonstrated this level of personality.

  The older girl, who Harper had said was eleven years old, was not as friendly as her sister. Maybe she just needed to be drawn out.

  “So, Cat, whatcha listening to?”

  No response.

  Violet waved a hand in front of her face. Caitriona wrinkled her nose, looking like Violet had opened a sewer in the kitchen, but because someone had taught her manners, she turned off her music.

  “Did you say something?” She had the St. James scowl down pat.

  “Just wondering what you’re listening to.”

  Caitriona was clearly restraining herself from a massive eye roll that pronounced Violet an idiot.

  “Hamilton,” Franky said. “That’s all she ever listens to.”

  “No, I don’t. You don’t know a thing about it.”

  “Hamilton had a big mouth. No wonder Burr shot him.”

  “God, you’re so stupid, Slug Girl.”

  “How am I stupid? You listen to the same music over and over. That’s stupid!”

  “That’s art!”

  “Hey, girls,” Violet cut in, feeling a smidge guilty for upsetting the fragile ecosystem with her pesky questions. “Let’s chill. You’re going to wake hungover Harper.”

  Oops. So not the right thing to say. These kids had probably witnessed enough hangovers to last a lifetime.

  “I suppose I’d better check on her.” The kids were unlikely to miss her, so Violet went on her way, coffee in hand. No sign of Harper near the first-floor bathroom, so she headed upstairs.

  Sometimes Violet couldn’t believe all this affluence and beauty surrounding her. And in another few weeks, she could take her share and do whatever she liked with it. That knot behind her breastbone throbbed, the same one that activated whenever Violet thought about her inheritance or leaving.

  “Hey, Harper?” Violet peered into Harper’s bedroom, only to find her in PJs, sitting on the bed, and looking off into the middle distance.

  On seeing Violet, she clutched her chest. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. I called out.” Harper looked pale and not her usual fresh-faced self. Witnessing her in anything less than the full bloom of health made Violet uneasy—it was a little too close to the memory of her own illness. “The girls seemed to think you were hurling your guts out.”

  “Well . . .”

  Recognition dawned. “You’re knocked up!”

  “Yes. And this kid already hates me.”

  Setting her coffee down on the nightstand, Violet sat on the bed beside her sister. Should she put an arm around her? Harper wasn’t really the touchy-feely type, but what the hell, Violet went for it anyway. When she felt Harper relax against her, she knew she’d made the right call.

  “Other than the fact you’re carrying a succubus, how do you feel about this? Does Remy know?”

  “I’m . . .” She shook her head, a smile slowly creasing her perfect porcelain doll features. “Excited. Remy doesn’t know yet, but he’s going to be thrilled. You know it’s exactly what he wants. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I want him to have the Cup first. And if we don’t win it this year, I was going to convince him to stay on in the NHL, not retire like he’d planned. Now he’ll feel extra pressure to get it done this time, and if we don’t—”

  “He’s going to feel the pressure anyway. This is the first time in fifteen years the Rebels have even made the play-offs. You think every single one of them isn’t feeling the pinch? If anything, this will spur him on. He’ll want to get your kid baptized in that hardware.”

  Harper giggled, a sign she’d come a long way. The Harper Violet met eight months ago was not a giggler. “I know. He’s going to make such a great father. You should see him with his nieces.”

  A tiny pang of envy seized Violet’s heart for a moment, but she willed it away. Would she be here to see her new niece or nephew? Would her sisters want her to stick around if they knew she’d effectively stolen one-third of their inheritance when her mom baited the honey trap?

  She swallowed around her discomfort. “Shouldn’t Remy be home by now?”

  “Yeah, but when he loses, he’d rather go home to his apartment. He worries about snapping at me.” They shared a smirk of acknowledgment at that ridiculousness. Remy was so good-humored that his version of a bad mood probably involved a light scowl at a puppy.

  “You have to tell him.”

  “Have to tell him what?”

  Violet looked up, surprised to see Remy after Harper had so adamantly assured them he wouldn’t be here. She squeezed Harper’s hand in encouragement. Tell him, it’ll be okay.

  Harper squeezed her hand back, but nothing emerged from her mouth.

  Remy tugged at his beard. Squinted. Assessed. With lightning-fast speed, he moved in, dropping to his knees before Harper. “Minou, what is it? You’re not looking so well.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Harper said overly brightly, blushing at Remy’s term of endearment for her. It meant “kitten,” but it also had a more X-rated meaning.

  Violet opened her mouth to spill the beans, but Remy spoke first. “You’re pregnant.” He said it with such reverence Violet’s heart almost cracked in half.

  Harper’s mouth wobbled and tears welled in those green eyes they’d all inherited from Papa Chase. “It’s the worst timing! I’m so sorry. This is not what you should be thinking about right now.”

  His hand cupped her face. “Now, stow that attitude where it belongs—in some deep, dank place. We’re having a baby and nothing could make me happier or prouder. Unless”—his blue eyes turned troubled—“you’re not ready.”

  Now it was Harper’s turn to put her partner at ease with a stroke of his face. Jesus. Violet’s eyes stung like a mother. She needed a bucket of popcorn for this beautiful sapfest.

  “I’m ready. I’m just not sure you are. By the time this Cajunette arrives, you’re supposed to be retired and getting fitted for that BabyBjörn. You know I have an empire to run, honey.”

  “We’ll figure it out. We’ve got an army of helpers and
a lifetime of love ahead of us to figure it out.”

  Gah, that sweet-talking lug. For once in his life, could he not come up with the perfect thing to say? Violet stood and retrieved her mug, not that anyone noticed. “Well, congratulations! I guess I’ll be off then. I only stopped by for coffee.”

  “Sure,” said Harper, not looking at her.

  “Uh-huh,” said Remy, his eyes still lovingly trained on his baby mama.

  On leaving, Violet threw one last look over her shoulder to find Remy with his head resting against Harper’s stomach, whispering something in French, whether to Harper or the baby she didn’t know. The only thing that marred the scene is that Harper looked like she might throw up all over his head.

  Still, pretty perfect. Taking her envy with her, Violet quietly left them to the joy of each other.

  FOUR

  Bren had always liked the house on the lake. Scratch that, he’d always loved it. Growing up with divorced parents and splitting his time between Scotland and Canada, he’d usually lived in small, pokey places. When he signed his first big contract with the Rebels, he bought a house. Even before he had a wife and family, he knew he wanted a place of his own.

  While most of his childhood was spent with his mother in Glasgow, his summers were spent in Winnipeg with his father and cousins. No matter that the warmer months were out of hockey season, his crazy Canadian family took to the ice oval all year-round, and that’s where he’d learned what he was fated to do. Learned to put away the bevvies like a champ, too. Back home in Scotland, a country with no ice hockey tradition, he’d practiced as best he could, but every year as summer approached, he knew that his destiny waited for him across the pond. Finally, when he was fifteen, his mother let him move to Winnipeg for good, just in time for him to get serious about making hockey his life. It was the only thing he was good at. The only thing that made sense to him. Until fatherhood.

  This house—his dream house—overlooked Lake Michigan from the shores of Highland Park. Set back off Hazel Avenue, its solid red brick sheltering six thousand square feet represented his arrival. His achievement. Having a woman like Kendra show interest in him was the cherry on top, the validation that this scrappy Scot bruiser had made it big time. He’d had all the trappings: lucrative contract, fancy house, beautiful wife, and a growing family. But beneath the perfect surface, he was a mess of doubts about his right to be here. Was he good enough to sustain the life he’d built?

  Apparently not.

  When he and Kendra separated a year ago, and she moved with the girls to Atlanta to live with her new boyfriend, Bren had shut up the house. Turned out his dream was a nightmare without his girls in it.

  His daughters jumped out of the car as soon as he hit the top of the drive. Even Caitriona was excited, the first time she’d shown enthusiasm for anything since she’d arrived in Chicago. He didn’t understand her hostility. For months, the girls had been saying they wanted to live with him—a shock in itself given how he’d scared the hell out of them on his last drunken binge. Now that it was a reality, Franky was on board, but Caitriona was acting like he was the Antichrist. If this was how she was at the tender age of eleven, what kind of horror was in store when she hit puberty?

  Don’t even think about that.

  “Dad, hurry!” Franky pushed her glasses up her nose. “Gretzky’s hungry.”

  This was probably true, because Gretzky was always hungry. The big mutt bounded out of the car at the sound of his name, anxious for company after spending the past three days kenneled.

  The front door opened, and for a second, Bren recoiled in expectation, then breathed out in relief. It wasn’t Kendra standing in the doorway, but Harper.

  “Hey, guys! Long time, no see, as of all of two hours ago.”

  “Hi, Harper!” Franky turned to Bren, wondering how long she had to be polite.

  “Up you go and see if your rooms look the same,” Bren said, but both of them were already off.

  “Have I told you you’re an absolute saint?” he asked as Harper grinned at the sight of his fast-disappearing children.

  “No, but I wouldn’t expect you to. This is going to get me through the pearly gates—purely ulterior motives.” Abruptly, her face turned chalk white and she raised a finger of just one moment. She was gone so fast he would have thought his kids’ vanishing act was contagious.

  Almost better. He’d rather no one bore witness to his discomfort as he walked through the house for the first time in a year. Memories rose to haunt him, physically represented by framed family photos on the walls and one of Gretzky’s chew toys discarded under a table in the foyer. Around each corner lay ghosts of his marriage, specters of the life he’d trashed. In the music room—Kendra’s name for it—his heart swelled at the sight of the piano, which Caitriona had played since the age of six. Someone had polished it—the cleaning crew Harper had hired, no doubt. He’d expected the air in the house to be stale, but they’d obviously opened up the windows and removed all the dust, which was good, because Franky was allergic to everything except Gretzky.

  Heading toward the kitchen, he heard music: Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain,” the part where its bass progression builds to that famous outro. A flurry, as his Scottish granny would call it, trickled down his spine, a sign of something momentous on the horizon.

  Such as Violet Vasquez’s ass in tiny denim shorts.

  That grade A rear stuck out of the fridge while she bent over, its perfect curve of butt cheek playing peek-a-boo through frayed hems. His eyes followed the shorts’ seam along the cleft of her ass until it disappeared to that mouthwatering spot between her thighs. Ker-ist. The inviting accessibility of it hardened his cock in his jeans.

  Sixteen months without sex. That’s all it was. He was hard up, and his hard-on was making everything so fucking hard.

  “Hey, Harpsichord, not sure you bought enough cheddar cheese. And that was sarcasm, by the way.” Violet laughed at her joke, her voice a musical echo inside the fridge.

  Backing up, she turned and frowned on seeing him ogling her so blatantly, as if her ass making him wild was his problem.

  He couldn’t help his grouchy reaction. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Ingrate.”

  He curved his gaze around her, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of a full-to-the-freezer fridge.

  “I—” He rubbed his mouth, feeling too warm and cock-dumb. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  Reaching up, she tightened the topknot that barely contained her lush waves of dark hair, which was now streaked with ribbons of pink instead of purple like the last time he’d seen her. She usually wore it down, unrestrained, a rebellious mass he longed to plow his fingers through.

  His eyes were drawn behind her to one of the open cupboards and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Double Black, whose label he’d recognize from a hundred paces. First order of business: dump all the booze. There was an entire cabinet of liquor in the den, a bar in the living room, bottles stashed anywhere and everywhere because he could never risk going without.

  While he was trying to recall where else he might have hidden one of his “friends,” Violet walked over to the kitchen island, hit the screen on her phone to stop the music, and leaned her hip against the side. The stance drew his attention to her thighs, which were covered in a riotous garden of colorful blooms. Beautifully shaped, those thighs tapered to perfect, smooth golden calves and red Converse. Bren knew little about fashion, but he had enough wherewithal to recognize that Violet’s style was definitely unique. Up top she wore a loose-fitting sweater, which couldn’t help slipping off her body, revealing a wafer-thin blue bra strap bisecting one lovely mocha-skinned shoulder.

  Christ, sobriety had turned him into a poet—and a horndog.

  “Your girls with you, Scottie?”

  “Aye, upstairs.” Where the bedrooms are. With beds. With my bed.

  The rapidity of his dirty thoughts seemed to have a direct correlat
ion with how fast Violet’s sweater slipped off her shoulder to reveal more skin, as if what was on display wasn’t enough. He wanted to rip that sweater off with his teeth and lick his way down her lush body.

  Instead of that he tried something even more dumb. Speaking. “So, you’re here. Helping Harper out.”

  “I’m here to fill your fridge.” She winked. “If ya know what I mean.”

  She leaned over on the island, her curves flowing with her. The sweater gaped now, giving him an entirely different vista to lust after. The dark shadow between her breasts made his mouth water.

  Stop. Please fucking stop.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re busy.” Annoyance at his reaction to her made him testier than usual.

  “Nessie, Harper needed help and I offered my services. Calm down, I’m not here to corrupt you.”

  A strangled sound emerged from his throat. Dressed like that, she could corrupt the pope.

  Her eyes widened, something like surprise—and desire?—in them. But, as it had been a long time since he’d seen a woman’s eyes flare that way, he dismissed it as impossible. Violet wasn’t attracted to him. Not really. She just liked to tease him, like she did the entire team.

  He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, frustration loosening his tongue. “You live to test me. Nothin’ but trouble.”

  Unfortunately, he had a major thing for trouble.

  No. He had a major thing for Violet.

  “Well, Trouble’s just bought and unpacked a shitload of groceries, Scot. And it’s made me oh so thirsty.” She turned back to the fridge and opened the door, leaning in so her hips hinged and her ass popped up as if to say, “Wanna bite out of this, baby?” She rummaged within and called out softly, “Can I tempt you?”

  “No,” he lied as he moved behind the island. “Thank you for the groceries. That was very nice of you.”

  Suddenly, tiredness clobbered him over the head like a two-by-four. He’d not been able to sleep on the flight back from Dallas, but he would now for a few hours. He might even take himself in hand, imagining his tongue trailing down Violet’s body to where she’d be soft, wet, and begging for his invasion. A harmless fantasy, surely.