by Kate Meader
“Come on, Cat!” Violet screamed above the hubbub, and she stood, holding out her hand. A moment’s hesitation seized Violet’s heart, but then the most lovely feeling overcame her. Cat placed her hand in Violet’s and stood, joining just in time for the big finale.
Caitriona was the only one of them with any real talent.
But it didn’t matter. Bren St. James had made his daughters’ day out perfect. And if Violet wasn’t already half in love with him, there was little doubt now of just how much trouble she was actually in.
TWENTY-ONE
Someone was tickling his feet. He hoped to God it wasn’t Gretzky.
He cracked open one eyelid, and the sight before him melted his heart. Each of his sprites had taken charge of a foot and were doing what little girls like to do to torture their dads: painting his toenails.
This morning, he’d arrived home from LA, checked that his girls were safe, and spent close to a stalker minute outside Violet’s room, his cock hard and achy, his need firing every one of his cells in want. Sleeping on the same level—and not in her bed—was impossible, so he came down to the sofa in the den. The wall clock now said 8:30 a.m., so he’d gotten just a couple of hours of shut-eye.
He blinked and raised a testing hand to his mouth. A swipe revealed no lipstick. He supposed he should be glad he hadn’t woken up in full makeup.
“That’s not my color,” he said, though his right foot—currently being tended to by Caitriona—was being painted a very fetching blue. Something peachy was happening to his left.
Franky giggled. “We thought you were dead.”
“No we didn’t,” Cat said. “He was snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Yes you do. Doesn’t he, Violet?”
“Like a foghorn.”
She stood at the door, wearing a skirt that looked like a puffy black sponge, silver kneesocks, and red Chuck Taylors. It had been three days since the St. James Clan’s Day Off, since Violet had made his kids feel like the treasures he knew them to be. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the sight of her dancing and singing in Harry Caray’s. All that free-spirited exuberance made his heart glow.
“Did you guys congratulate your dad on how well he played?”
“He knows,” Cat said, her focus on painting his little toe.
“He’d still appreciate hearing it.”
Cat rolled her eyes. “Good job, Dad.”
“Thanks, Caitriona.”
“Finished!” Franky said. “Next customer.” She looked up at Violet, determination in the set of her pink-bud mouth. “The salon is open.”
“Okay, but just my hands. Been a while since I had a manicure.”
Violet sat at one end of the sofa while Franky took a spot between them.
“Everything go okay here?” Bren raised his gaze to find Violet’s fixed to his bare chest. He rubbed his mouth to hide his grin at the thought of being ogled. “Violet?”
“What? Oh, right. Yes! Fine. We found another tenant for Slugville, though I think it’s turning into Slumlord Ville. Too many occupants in too small a space.”
Franky made a sound of discontent. “They like being close together. Like family.”
“What about you, Cat? Get any piano practice in?”
“Nope,” his oldest said, but her gaze found Violet’s, secrets in her eyes.
He caught a quick wink from Violet to Cat, which was mighty encouraging. Cat in a good mood and sharing something with Violet? A foreign warmth flooded his chest, and he didn’t even mind that he was out of the loop. Feeling happy and relaxed, he waited to speak until Franky finished Violet’s nails with a green polish.
“You guys had breakfast yet?” The girls were still in PJs, so it was possible.
“Nope,” said Franky, then, with imploring eyes, asked, “Can we make an apple pie later?”
His heart soared. “Course we can, but go on and have some breakfast first. I’ll join you in a second.”
Once they were out of the room, he waited a moment, then pounced.
“Bren,” Violet gasped as he pulled her into his lap. Her fluffy skirt was no match for his hands, which soon found home wrapped around the curves of Violet’s amazing ass. She couldn’t resist him or else she’d mess up her just-polished nails.
“Hi,” he whispered against her ear, then added a nip.
Her low moan went straight to his dick. “Bren, did you just send your kids to the kitchen so you can feel up the nanny?”
“Maybe.”
“Uh, not cool.” She scrambled off his lap and put a foot of frustration between them. “Did you see that someone posted a video of us on Facebook?”
Another restaurant customer had shot footage of them having a good time dancing away. Rebels PR had run with it: anything to prove he was a rehabilitated human.
“Is that a problem?”
“You said yourself we shouldn’t confuse the kids.”
“It was just a day out organized by the woman who looks after my girls.”
“And now people will read into it.”
“And that’s bad because?”
“Come on, Bren. The hot athlete hooking up with the nanny? The multimillion-dollar pro in the cross-hairs of the gold digger with no marketable skills beyond her world-class ass?”
This wasn’t what he’d expected when he woke up to a pedicure. “Violet, you are a woman of means. No one is going to think you’re after me for my money. Christ, your share of the franchise has to be worth five times my contract. So what if you don’t care about running it? Your worth isn’t determined by what you contribute to the Rebels organization and its bottom line.”
Her worth to him was immeasurable, and not just because of how amazing she was with the girls. He hazarded a guess as to what was going on here.
“I know you’re worried about the surgery tomorrow.”
She folded her arms, clearly uncomfortable. “Maybe a little.”
“I’m going to ask Skylar to watch the girls so I can be with you.”
Now she looked at him as if he’d grown three heads. “Why would you want to do that?”
“To be supportive.”
“Bren, that’s not necessary. Harper and Isobel are insisting on going with me. Cade, too, though I told him I’ve got this.”
Jealousy flared. Ridiculous, perhaps, but Cade should not be the one holding her hand.
“I’d like to be there.”
She grimaced. “You show up and people will start asking questions. Assigning motives.”
“They can assign whatever motives they want.”
“No, they can’t, Bren. What’s happening between us is great, but it doesn’t extend to that kind of stuff. I want to keep it simple.”
Simple? They’d moved far beyond simple. That last time at her cottage, he’d shared things with her that he’d never told a living soul. But he was seeing now that it was a one-way street. Violet wouldn’t open up unless he unsealed her with a crowbar.
“I don’t really do simple.”
She went wide-eyed. “This is temporary. This job, you and me, my time in Chicago. All of it.”
“Right, because you’re just here while your one-third investment in the Rebels gets more valuable.”
Hurt flashed in her eyes, and he immediately regretted his sharp words. “Violet, I—”
She gave the hand of shut up. “Right now, you have the trifecta: child care, laundry, and no-strings sex. Though I wouldn’t count on that last one anytime soon. Don’t complicate it.” And then she flounced out of the room.
If there was anyone worth getting complicated for, it was this amazing woman who was doing her best to push him away.
“You really don’t have to be here. I know you have stuff to do.”
Violet watched as Harper fluffed a pillow for the seventieth time. It happened to be one of the firmer sofa pillows that were resistant to fluffing, but that made no odds to Harper. She bashed and shaped it to her will, then placed it in it
s original spot on Violet’s sofa in the cottage.
“I’m happy to be here,” Harper said in a voice that was a little high pitched.
“What’s going on?”
“Other than the fact my sister had serious surgery this morning?”
“Outpatient surgery,” Isobel muttered around a salted caramel from the stash Addison had brought by earlier. The procedure to remove Violet’s lipoma had lasted thirty minutes and she’d been awake the entire time. So, the least dramatic surgery ever.
“I’m fine, Harper.” She lifted her arm and pointed at the bandage that would stay on for a couple of days. “Now in a fat-free version.”
“Well, your armpit is,” Isobel said, barely looking up from a copy of Sports Illustrated with the Rebels on the cover. “As for the rest of you—”
“Leave my ass out of this,” Violet said with a finger point.
Harper twitched her nose. “Look, we couldn’t be there for you last time, so we just want to be sure we’re doing all we can this time. Like a real family.”
Isobel shared a mischievous look with Violet before announcing in the most deadpan tone ever, “Sure. Great job, Harper. Your pillow-fluffing abilities are without equal.”
“Oh, shut it,” Harper said, throwing the just-fluffed pillow at Isobel’s head. She sat down and relaxed for the first time since this morning at the hospital. Faced with Harper in CEO mode, the doctor and her staff had been very afraid.
“I know you think I’m crazy, but when my mom was going through her health issues, I sometimes think I didn’t do enough. I so wanted to be out of there.” She looked off in the direction of Chase Manor, a couple of hundred feet from the room where they were sitting. Harper’s mom had died of ovarian cancer when Harper was seventeen, so this was clearly a sore spot. “I don’t want you thinking that all we Chase girls are good for is wine chugging, eighties movies marathons, and inappropriate ceramic sculptures. That we don’t know how to do the important stuff.”
“She knows, Harper,” Isobel said, not quite as blasé as before. “But if you keep this level of nutjobbery up, she’s going to be cutting and running before the season is over. Stop being so . . . you!”
Everyone laughed, even Harper, whose eyes had misted over. She knuckled the welling moisture away. “So, is that still the plan? You want to sell your share of the team to us and travel the world?”
Isobel was paying closer attention now, waiting on Violet’s answer.
“The team means everything to you, but it doesn’t have a similar pull for me. I don’t contribute in the same way and I need to figure out what comes next.”
Since her diagnosis, she’d been treating her life as a do-over. Trying new things, grabbing life by the balls, the Year of the V. Now that she was a woman of means, she could travel. Maybe get a degree in education. No more working in bars or low-rent tattoo parlors.
You’re just here while your one-third investment in the Rebels gets more valuable.
“Not everyone has to work for the family business,” Harper said. “And there are plenty of other reasons to stay.”
“Aye, plenty,” Isobel said with a wink.
Violet glared at her, then quickly moved to throw Harper off the scent and put her at ease. “Don’t worry, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. The peanut needs a cool aunt, don’t you think? The kind who drops in unexpectedly from her world travels with crazy stories about swimming with dolphins and hooking up with hot hung guys on long train rides.”
Harper sniffed at that.
“Oh, God, you’re going to set her off again,” Isobel groaned.
“What’s this?” A deep voice sounded from the entrance to the living room. Moving closer, Remy placed a giant stockpot and two Whole Foods bags on the floor. “Minou, can I not leave you alone for a second? Every time I turn around, you have tears in your eyes.”
“I’m fine! We’re all fine!” Harper stood and threw her arms around her man. They stared at each other for a long moment, which was sort of embarrassing to watch.
Isobel coughed. “Cool it, sex fiends.”
“Did someone call for a sex fiend?” Another bass was added to the mix, this one with a distinctly foreign flavor to it.
Isobel grinned at her boyfriend, Vadim, who had come in behind Remy. “Hey, Russian.”
He bent over and kissed her chastely on the forehead. “You are right. We shall keep our shocking antics private. Best not to make others jealous of our wonderful sex life.”
“Keep up your winning ways and there’s a handie in it for you, babe. A BJ if you score more than once.”
Violet rounded on Isobel, her mouth open in wonder. “You’re holding out unless he wins?”
“Too right,” Isobel said with a wicked grin. “A good coach works on the incentive model.”
With an eye roll appropriate to his Russian-ness, Vadim abandoned his coach and kissed Violet on the cheek. “How is my future sister-in-law?”
The shocks, they kept on coming. “Your future sister-in-law is feeling great, but a little confused. What have I missed?”
All eyes turned to Isobel, who had developed a watercolor bloom in her cheeks. “So he asked and I said . . . maybe.”
“Maybe?” A chorus of horrified voices called out, except for Vadim, who looked remarkably unruffled.
“She wishes for the team to win the Cup first. Our relationship has always operated on incentives. This is no different.” He took a seat on the sofa beside Violet. “And as I know we will win, I am calling you my future sister-in-law. Though you will always be my tattoo twin first.”
Vadim and Violet spent most of their quality time together comparing their respective ink. It was good to have hobbies.
Remy narrowed his eyes at Petrov. “There’s no certainty in play-off hockey, Russe. Take it from the guy who’s lost three finals. And I sure as hell don’t need you jinxing it with that kind of talk.”
The team was flying out to LA in a couple of days, with the semifinals series tied at 3 all. So far, they had been playing like their lives, careers, and children’s futures depended on it. No one could quite believe it, but it certainly made for great TV. The ratings were the best the NHL had seen in years, and one more win would send them to the Stanley Cup finals.
“We talking about Petrov’s proposal again?” Cade walked in, followed by Dante. Damn, it was like Grand Central Station in here. The Texan cupped Violet’s face and planted a sloppy kiss on her forehead. “How’s that weight loss program workin’ out, chica?”
She laughed and made a big to-do of wiping off his smooch. “Pretty good. And how come you know about Petrov’s proposal and I don’t? Some BFF you are.”
“Hell, he’s been yammerin’ on about it for so long I figured the whole world and his uncle Jerome had heard about it.” Cade slid onto the sofa on Violet’s other side. “Move it, girl. Where’s Lord St. James?”
Violet schooled her features to blank. “Watching the girls, I suppose.”
“Thought maybe he’d be here wowing us all with his Ferris Bueller dance moves like in that Facebook video. The voice, though. Brutal.” He delivered a smartass grin and she stuck out her tongue in return.
Dante’s smile was far too knowing. “You hungry, Vasquez?”
“Starving. I think Remy might have brought something, though.”
“Uh-oh,” Cade muttered. “Dante also brought something. Ingredients for pasta puttanesca.”
All attention shot to the chefs, watching as the two men sized each other up, kitchen masters about to throw down. This could get ugly real fast.
“DuPre,” Dante said, all gravity.
“Moretti,” Remy replied, equally serious.
Both were the same age, had been drafted the same year, were formerly coworkers in Boston, and could destroy a room with a blue-eyed stare. While Dante had been out of the game for over ten years because of injury, he still dined off his reputation for never backing down.
The face-off continued for a g
ood ten seconds until Violet finally said: “For God’s sake, you’re both pretty! Share my tiny kitchen, make all the food, and I guarantee you I will eat every last bite.”
“Right answer, future sister-in-law,” Remy said, and at everyone’s bug-eyed expressions, he chuckled. “Now, mes amis, it’s not a done deal yet—”
“Because you haven’t asked!” Harper exclaimed.
Remy turned to her, his face filled with such love Violet’s heart clamped hard.
“Last I checked you’re a kick-ass, take-no-prisoners woman in charge and we’re livin’ in the twenty-first century where women are perfectly capable of making marriage proposals.” At Harper’s dropped jaw, he held up a hand. “But I’m a bit of a throwback and won’t be standing for that kind of nonsense. I’ll be doing the asking, and soon. I won’t be placing any conditions on it, either, like winning the Cup and whatnot, and neither will you. My momma would never forgive me if I didn’t make an honest woman out of you, minou.”
“Marrying me to please his momma.” Harper sighed. “Be still my heart.”
Everyone laughed at that while Remy scooped up Harper and kissed her thoroughly.
Violet smiled at a winking Cade, a wobbly smile quivering her lips. Every day she spent here, she fell deeper and deeper in love with this crew of people. Her sisters, the guys, the Sc—
Best not to go there.
He had offered to come with her to the surgery. More than offered. Insisted. And she’d shut him down because she didn’t want to let him into this part of her life. Lines had been crossed, confidences exchanged, hearts engaged. Hers, for sure.
He’d called a couple of times to check in on how she was, and she’d played the coward and texted him back that she was fine! Absolutely fine! He knew she’d have a posse to take care of her. She wasn’t his problem and all his energy had to be for his girls. She told herself this, was quite insistent. She admired his dedication, especially after her own experience without a father.
Yet, why did her heart ache as if it had been removed instead of that fatty underarm lump?
TWENTY-TWO
