by Hilary Storm
“What? No. Use mine when we get home.”
“Can’t hold it.” I shake my head and jump up before she can argue further. “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Four
Brewer
I’m in much better spirits after tonight’s win—and we’ve got a three-day break—that I’m hoping like hell to spend with her. All of it; seventy-two hours, not a second of it wasted. I’ve got a real good feeling about this one, a rush like never before; things seeming to fall into place by themselves.
Such as…
“I don’t give two shits if you’re ‘in the mood’ or not. We’re taking our asses out to celebrate, probably tomorrow night too, and your ass is gonna smile the whole goddamn time.” Lance’s feeling salty… playing right into my hand.
“Okay,” I pour it on thick, “guess I do owe you one.”
“Damn right you do.”
“Not arguing, dipshit,” I laugh. “Let’s go already; I’ll drive.”
He follows me to my truck, talking a mile-a-minute, rattling off suggestions of clubs to hit. I don’t bother to set him straight, inserting a few hmms of fake interest every so often, driving as fast as the law allows to my already determined destination.
“What’re we doing here? Wait, where the hell even is here?” he asks when I park my truck.
“You’ll see. Come on.” I climb out, grinning to myself. “You can thank me later.”
He keeps grilling me as we walk to the door, still running at the mouth while we wait after I knock; but I say nothing, letting him stew. A very pretty woman with long, jet-black hair opens the door, and I hold in my laugh while she glances from me to Lance, her jaw dropping and eyes bulging as she does it one more time, as if making sure.
“Hi, you must be Nichole,” I help her out, smiling.
She nods, cheeks now scarlet, and finally manages to pull her eyes off Lance long enough to meet mine. “I-, wh-, yes”—she pauses to gather herself— “I’m Nichole.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Brewer Hayes.” I shake her trembling hand. “Sorry about the mix-up before; I just assumed they were her seats. And I hope you don’t mind, but Lance here tagged along.” I laugh lightly, positive that she doesn’t mind a damn bit. “Lance, this is Nichole Everett. She’s a Freeze fan, season ticketholder, and, rumor has it, is under the delusion that you’re quite the player. Nichole, Lance Fox, worst player on the team; best at being a pain in my ass,” I introduce them, Lance’s punch to my arm deserved, I suppose.
“Well hellooo, Nichole. Very nice to meet you,” Lance schmoozes, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing it like some sort of a gentleman, the insinuation in his voice just having told her he’s anything but. What a jackass.
I’m about to apologize for him, but stop short when I realize… his bullshit actually worked. She blushes from neck to forehead and giggles, while moving closer to him. I shake my head and smother a scoff— yeah, they’re gonna get along just fine.
“Is-”
Nichole somehow hears me amidst her Lance Fox Fog and cuts me off by holding up a single, stiff finger, motioning for us to come inside as she smiles sweetly. Then, further proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she’s a pistol, absolutely perfect for Lance. She calmly closes the door, turns her head and screeches, “Gracelyn Christine Bolton, get your ass out here!”
Gracelyn. Beautiful. Very fitting. But she’d signed as ‘Gracie.’ Can’t wait to ask her myself which she prefers.
And then I see her… poking her sweet, stunning face out from around the corner of a room down the hall. Her wide-eyes find mine and I mouth, ‘Hey.’
‘Hey yourself,’ she silently replies, her smile one of delicate, classic beauty. Reminding me—hands-down the most random, and yes, a bit cheesy for my male pride, thought I’ve ever had—of the vintage bombshells in the black-and-white movies my parents used to watch. Those women who were authentically beautiful, no color or special effects to hide or enhance things.
Unlike her hellcat friend, I ask her to come out nicely, with the crook of my finger and a warm grin. And I watch—each fleeting, subtle shift in her expression, the soft sway of every single part of her body, the deepening hue on her cheeks—as she slowly approaches.
Then jolt, just like her, when Nichole launches in again. “Well, look who finally decided to join us: Miss Full of Surprises! Can you believe it, G? Lance Fox, of all people, standing in my living room! Yeah, I know; shocking, right? So why is it you don’t look the least bit shocked? And, how nice would it have been if I’d have known; could’ve gotten ready too?”
I’ve known this chick for a minute, so I can’t tell if she’s kidding or genuinely furious. And I’m not willing to chance it, so I step up, praying it works, or it’s the former, and the night isn’t ruined. “Um, Nichole, hate to interrupt, or butt in your business… but I’m gonna have to interrupt and butt in your business.” She looks to me, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, so I turn up my smile and charm. “You look beautiful—like you spent hours getting ready. And, blame me, not Gracelyn, please. Lance and I always go out to celebrate a win together, and since no one else can stand his ass, I risked it and brought him along. Like I said before— my idea, totally my fault.”
“Could you be more full of shit?” she calls me right the fuck out, no hesitation whatsoever. “Isn’t he?” She now turns her glare and temper on Gracelyn.
But my little lady has some oomph of her own, which comes out kicking… and my dick swells with a whole new hunger. “Just say thank you, Nichole Elaina Everett, then shut it. Yep, I went there; full-named ya right back!”
“Okay, what’d I miss?” Lance asks— anyone, everyone— and I bust out laughing; can’t be helped. “Oh, and my middle name’s Christopher. Just throwing that out there; seems like a requirement to play… whatever the hell game this is.”
“Nice to meet you, Lance Christopher,” she snickers, “I’m Gracie Bolton.” She steps forward with her hand extended, which he wisely only shakes… knowing I’ll rip his lips right off his fucking face if they dare touch her hand. “You’ve obviously met my best friend Nichole, or Nikki— what she goes by. This is her place, her season tickets, and your biggest fan. Please ignore her bitchy, over-the-top reaction. She’s never been good at surprises, but is thrilled you’re here, I assure you.”
“I’ve” —she moves so she’s standing in good view of us all, holding her phone up and out— “called and texted my mother all pertinent information on both of you guys. And it’s only fair to also let you know, my mom’s that lady; the nosy neighbor who peers around her curtains, chomping at the bit to scope out any suspicious activity that she feels is her duty to immediately report to the police.”
“Oh my God, please tell them about the fruitcake,” Nikki urges, seeming excited. Way too excited for anything fruitcake-related.
“Guess I have to now.” Gracie rolls her eyes. “So, yeahhhhh, my mother hand-delivers a homemade fruitcake to every officer, every shift, every Christmas. And in return, they… quit encouraging her to stop calling them.”
Precious. Seriously—I haven’t a single clue how, why, or what the hell’s going on with me—but I’m uncontrollably drawn to this woman; each new thing she says or does more intriguing than the last. And accordingly, I simply stare, smiling, while Nikki and Lance both double over in howling laughter.
“Anyway, my point is, don’t say I didn’t warn you, should either of you decide to dismember, murder, or harm either of us. My mother will track you like a bloodhound, make you wish you were dead. So, Lance, can I trust you to keep my friend far from any harm tonight?”
Well fuck… I’m completely screwed, because nothing that anyone says, ever again, has a chance in hell of keeping me even half as entertained as this woman. Which means, I’ve either got to ensure that she never stops talking, to me, or face a life of mundanity.
Lance and Nikki just stand there, frozen, wearing identical, dumbfounded expressions. But I— I am fascinated�
� beyond restraint, already moving to take her beautiful, intelligent, spunky little self by the hand. Small. Soft. A perfect, feminine fit in mine.
“He’s harmless,” I dip my head and whisper in her ear. “You have my word.”
She tilts her head to look up at me, plump, suck-worthy lips curling in taunt. “What about you, Brewer Hayes? Are you harmless?”
I lean in closer, our noses brushing and gazes locked. “I’d say yes, but I aim to please… and you’re praying that I say no.”
Chapter Five
Gracie
I didn’t acknowledge it or respond when he’d breathed the truth, smug and warm, upon my lips… and neither of us have said much since. Now, as he drives and I do my best not to fidget, a stale silence remains, thickening the air. He’s keeping his eyes on the road for the most part, but I’m hyper-aware of every side glance he flicks my way; what I’m guessing is his form of fidgeting… afraid he came on too strong and offended me, unsure if it’s safe to break the ice yet.
He didn’t, and it is, but he doesn’t know that, so, looks like the ball’s in my court. Or, puck’s in my rink.
“Okay, I can’t take it. You’ve got to tell me to what I owe that sweet little giggle.” His voice is tinged with humor, anticipating the story behind the noise I didn’t realize I’d released, and unknowingly, used to split the ice right down the middle.
“Umm…” I gnaw at my lip, struggling to come up with something, anything, besides honesty. Just this once.
“Nuh uh,” he chuckles, “out with it.
“Fine,” I sigh, already cringing. “But you can’t laugh.”
“Why not? You did.”
“Touché. Alright, sheesh. But laugh with me, not at me. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Starting to miss the awkward silence phase. That ship sailed though, so here goes… “I was thinking the ball was in my court, to initiate a conversation…”
“And?”
I cover my eyes with my hand, ‘cause that’ll help. “And I changed it to something else, that struck me as funny.”
“What’d you change it to?” The lilt of amusement in his voice is already strong and I’ve yet to deliver the punch line. At this rate, he’ll probably piss himself and run us into a ditch by the time I’m finished.
“Puck’s in my rink,” I mumble, eyes still covered. “Seemed fitting to me, but go ahead, laugh it up.”
Braced for ridicule, met by complete quiet, I talk myself into taking a glimpse at his reaction, of non-reaction, and to figure out why the truck’s stopped moving. I’m too slow, though—my hand being lowered for me—my now exposed eyes meeting his as he holds my hand, rubbing circles in my palm with his thumb.
“That was the cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard. You’re something, Gracie Bolton,” he murmurs, a wolfish hint to his tone that hits me right between the thighs.
“Something…” In a shaky whisper, I beg him to elaborate.
“Worth exploring.” He gifts me with that same sly smirk he’d worn during our very first encounter at his game, even more effective this time around.
Still hesitant to forfeit my inhibitions, or allow myself to become so lost in his husky timbre, bottomless eyes, and suggestive aura that I hurl myself on top of him, I reroute us to boring, small-talk, using full voice. “I’m glad my note made it to you tonight. I would’ve felt awful about leaving Nikki sitting at home alone; especially when the only reason I’m here is to visit her.”
He decides it’s his turn to lead the conversation, hanging a hard right at loud and gruff. “Visit?”
“Yes, visit. I don’t live here, Brewer. I just came up to stay with Nik for a week; been way too long. Then, back home I go.” I smile, and hitch a shoulder, stumped by the harsh bend to his brows. Then with my pointer finger out, I motion about his face and ask, “What’s, uh, going on there, grumpy?”
When he says nothing and his expression further hardens, an absurd thought flits through my mind, causing me to laugh... and ask,
“Surely you’re not gonna try to sell me some load of crap… like, your grouchy face is because you’re just devastated”—I embellish my sarcasm by slapping the back of my hand against my forehead— “to learn that the woman you met a whole hour ago doesn’t live within your grasp,” I end with louder, unstoppable laughter.
“Kind of, yeah.” His pouty grunt’s not only adorable, but dare I speculate… genuine?
But how could that be? Oh, that’s right–it couldn’t. My, my, Gracie, someone sure thinks highly of herself. He’s obviously just kidding around, while being flattering… I talk some sense into myself and snap out of it.
“Only a week, huh? Counting back from the first night I saw you, we’ve got, what, four days left?”
Okay, no way did I imagine it this time. There’s definitely an edge of disappointment to his voice. Nor did I mishear him say ‘we,’ meaning him and I, calculating the ticking clock on our possible time together. But I haven’t the foggiest on how to best respond, so I’m beyond grateful when he is the one to speak again.
“You hungry?”
Nowhere in the neighborhood of what I was expecting, a small snicker breaks away from me. “Um, not really. I don’t usually eat this late at night. But if you are-”
“Gracie, I’m a hockey player. I’m always hungry,” he laughs. “I wasn’t even thinking about the time, sorry. Don’t worry, either; I’ll live.”
Anddd… we’re back to smothering, dead air—parked on the side of the road, late at night—both thinking the same thing, equally afraid to broach anywhere near the subject aloud. I steal a peek at him out of the corner of my eye, and he chooses that exact moment to turn his head toward me, a timid, endearing grin slowly curling his mouth.
“Gracie.”
“Brewer.”
“I need you to help me out here. I’m in unfamiliar territory, and I don’t have a clue where or how to get a map.”
God, he’s sexy. A real-life, steal-your-breath-and-wet-your-panties wonder—somehow able to mold his vulnerable and chivalrous request into a seductive, manly temptation.
A temptation I don’t want to resist, or waste any more time that I could be using to enjoy it, him, by feigning ladylike innocence. Life is too short for any of that nonsense, and I’d be a damn fool to pass up a shot at so much as a second of bliss with Brewer Hayes. Men like him aren’t exactly waiting around the corner.
So accordingly, shamelessly, I froth at the mouth like the bitch in heat I am—my safety-net excuse already tucked in my pocket— crazed by the cobwebs.
“You know the whole ‘I don’t usually do this sort of thing’ speech that some women give, even though they shouldn’t have to, since men never feel the need to justify themselves?” He smiles, bright and wide, eyes alight with mirth, and nods. “Okay, take that spiel, which sadly, is one hundred percent accurate in my case, then tack on…” I clear my throat, take a few deep breaths in, out, then let loose what will undoubtedly be, and remain, the most mortifying utterance of my entire life.
“Up until last week, I was a cat lady; full-fledged. I even inherited my grandma’s rocking chair and the afghan that’s still hanging over the back of it. The only reason I finally came to visit Nikki is because Tink, my cat, died. It really was her time to go; poor thing was so old, half-blind, ran into walls-” I stop mid-ramble and squeeze my eyes shut from a whole new batch of humiliation… having just made it even worse than already forecasted. But somehow, I forge on—too late to turn back now.
“In case I didn’t quite cover it and there’s any confusion, yes, my cat died.” I attempt to play it off with dry wit. “My parents moved to a swanky retirement community by the ocean a while back, and I’m an only child. So, other than my students—oh, I’m a third-grade teacher by the way—Tink was all I had in my everyday life. Being single is hard; dating just isn’t what it used to be, with all the technology and websites there are now. And, I live in a pretty small town, so I dated, and vetoed, any s
ingle, halfway decent guys a long time ago.”
I take another break in my babbling and pry my eyes open, determined to keep them open this time, to gauge his reaction. You know, on the off-chance he might like a turn to speak—for the first time in several minutes. It seems not, though. He simply stares, a certain glimmer in his eyes that might just fool a girl into believing he actually finds her nonsensical soliloquy interesting.
Finally, in the baritone of scandal, he prompts, “Go on.”
Huh. Either he’s a glutton, just as lonely as I am... or has a very skewed opinion on what’s interesting.
“Too late for this, I realize, but… long story short?” I sigh. “I haven’t had sex in three years. Three. I want to. With you, Brewer Hayes. Not because you’re a hockey star. I’ve been to two games in my life—both yours—so clearly not a deal maker for me. I want to have sex with you because… the wink, smirk, picking me out of the crowd, hunting me down, sending the definitely forward note” —we both lightly laugh—“all of it; turned me on. I felt pursued, exhilarated, more excited than I’ve been about anything in a very long time. And, it doesn’t hurt that you are, without a doubt, the sexiest man I have ever seen in my life. I want your big strong body on top of me, under me, overwhelming me. And I’m not gonna apologize or feel ashamed about it.”
There, I said it. Laid all my cards on the table—which honestly, felt pretty damn good. To at last, for once, cast aside any and all ridiculous rules, stigmas, double-standards or fears… and just go for it.
It’d probably feel even better if he’d respond, reassure me, laugh, cough, sneeze— at this point, I’d take anything—but he gives nothing.
Not a peep.
He shifts in his seat and starts the truck, then pulls away from the curb and onto the main street… all while continuing to give me nada. I’m guessing it’s because he’s too focused on beelining straight to Nikki’s to drop my jabbering, harlot ass back off where he found me.
