by Maria Luis
I laugh awkwardly, a choked sound that sounds miserable even to my own ears.
There’s nothing quite like a bout of self-examination while you wait for your crush to speak to make you feel on top of the world—not.
I wonder how much worse it would get if I asked Marshall to never let me go, Rose-Jack style.
So bad.
“Gwen.”
I swallow. “Yes?”
“What’s the likelihood of you climbing out of your lasagna pool and meeting me tonight?”
The daughter part of me—the one so desperate for a slice of affection from my mother—is determined to stay here and clean this place right up. Make her realize that although she’ll never, ever, put me first, I do my best to make her a priority.
Before tonight, I would have turned down Marshall’s proposal and made the magic happen.
Tonight, after watching Adaline send away both her butler and chef while keeping her new boy toy close, I think it’s time to put me first. For once.
Eyeing the sauce-painted walls, I toss the napkin on the table and stand. “I have Burberry pie.”
“What?”
Oops. “I mean, blueberry pie. I have blueberry pie.”
“I’m not a man who turns down pie,” he tells me, voice low, “and I’m not the type of guy who reneges on a promise. I owe you a kiss, Gwen, and I hope you’re ready to collect.”
Oh. Oh.
I don’t have the chance to formulate a witty rejoinder.
His laugh is husky, sexy, and it’s all too easy to picture him thumbing the belt loop of his jeans just before he strips off his shirt to show me the goods. “I’ll text you directions to my house, in case you don’t remember where I’m at.” He pauses. “Don’t forget the pie, honey. I’m feeling hungry in more ways than one.”
15
Gwen
Three Years Earlier…
Heads swivel in my direction the moment I enter Write’s Funeral Home over in East Cambridge.
I don’t recognize a single soul, and the truth of that nearly pulls a laugh from my unsmiling lips.
Here I am for my father’s funeral and none of his friends recognize me and I sure as hell don’t recognize any of them. Maybe if I hadn’t just retouched my blond roots with more red hair dye, I’d be greeted with hugs instead of blank stares . . .
Or maybe you should just accept the fact that you and your father never had a relationship.
Tugging my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, I stop to sign the guest book. The names listed there don’t ring a bell:
Greer Smith, Norwood, Massachusetts.
Viktor Choctov, Fall River, Massachusetts.
Sam Gilton, Nashua, New Hampshire.
I grip the pen in my left hand and press the ballpoint to the lined sheets of paper. In another universe, today would go differently. My mother would be here at my side, and I’d be surrounded by family as opposed to complete strangers. I’d stand up at the front of the funeral home by my father’s open casket with my uncle and cousins, and even though my heart would feel scraped raw after losing my dad, I would know, at least, that I wasn’t alone.
Unfortunately, alternate realities aren’t a thing in my world and the only truth I have is that I am Mark James’s daughter. A daughter he hasn’t seen in ten years, and a daughter who has enough regrets to make even a sinner feel angelic.
Feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes, I scrawl my name beneath Mr. Gilton of Nashua.
Gwen James, Boston, Massachusetts, daughter of Mark.
As though I need further proof that I do, in fact, belong in this funeral home to pay my respects like everyone else.
On impulse, I write my mother’s name just below mine.
She’ll never know, and seeing her name there appeases some level of guilt inside me.
At least this way, we can all pretend Adaline isn’t completely selfish.
No one turns to greet me as I skirt around groups of people reminiscing about my father.
“Such a good guy,” one man says, “you’d never know from the way he worked his classroom and the ice rink that he’d been sick for over a year now.”
I don’t know what it says about me that I didn’t even know my dad was sick until my Uncle Bob called me with the news of my dad’s passing. Guilt thrives in my soul, relentless and domineering. It takes everything in me not to turn around and hightail it back to my car.
Don’t ever bail.
Strangely enough, it’s my father’s last words to Adaline before their divorce was finalized that propel me forward. Like a shield, I tug on my cardigan again, wrapping my arms around my middle as I step into the back room.
I spot Bob over by the casket, shaking hands with a broad-shouldered man whose shaggy brown hair is a touch too long to be remotely fashionable. A leather jacket encases his torso, despite the fact that it feels like a million degrees in here. He claps my uncle on the shoulder, issuing a farewell if I’m guessing right, and then turns around.
Faces me.
And no matter the fact that we’re surrounded by twenty-plus people in a small, heated room, I feel like I’ve been submerged into the icy waters of Boston Harbor in the middle of February.
What is Marshall Hunt doing here?
He approaches with slow, measured steps, as though giving me time to acclimate to his presence in a space that doesn’t belong to him. Not that it belongs to me, either, really.
My gaze latches onto Bob, and I can’t help but wonder if Marshall knew my dad. But how?
I don’t have the chance to give it any further thought because in the next breath, he’s standing before me. Tall. Broad. Handsome in that pretty-boy model way of his that I remember so acutely.
“Gwen.”
It’s all he says, and there’s got to be something wrong with me because that’s the moment I choose to lose it.
A sob peels from my soul, and it should be loud and noisy the way it feels clanging around in my chest but it’s not. The sound of my heart breaking for a man I never had the opportunity to know is silent and steady, just like our relationship over the years. Pushed into nonexistence because my mother saw fit to keep us separated, and by the time I’d reached adulthood, Mark James was done playing the games of his ex-wife and a daughter he barely knew.
“Come with me.” Marshall tangles his hand with mine, leading me from the room and down a hallway. I should put up some sort of protest—I never let a man take control—but perhaps it’s the shock of seeing Marshall, someone I haven’t seen since college, that keeps me quiet.
He pauses outside a doorway, gives a rap of his knuckles against the wood. When there’s no reply, he pushes the door open and pulls me inside. “You need air,” he says, releasing my hand to go to the windows.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You could have brought me outside.”
I expect to hear his quiet, familiar laugh, but the only sound is the creaking of the window scraping past chipped paint as he hauls it up and into place. “I could have,” he finally says, “but I figured you’d rather have a moment to yourself where you’re not being stared at by everyone your father knew and you didn’t.”
“You know me too well.”
The words slip out before I have the chance to stall them, and Marshall gives a slow shake of his head. “Nah, but I wish I did.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, and I step forward. “Marshall, I—”
He holds up a hand. “Gwen, that’s not why I brought you in here.”
“Then why did you?”
“Honestly?”
I nod.
“You looked like you needed a hug from someone who cared.” His voice is like velvet, a soft caress that reminds me of hot summer nights and languid hours spent curled in a lover’s embrace. “Let me be there for you.”
Let me be there for you.
The tears threaten again, itching my nose and burning my eyes, and I tilt my face up to the ceiling. Over the years, I’ve grown an impenetra
ble outer shell. I’ve worked hard to show the world that I’m not a woman on the verge of shattering on the inside.
No one sees the hurt.
No one suspects the insecurities.
No one but Marshall Hunt, a guy too young for me who can’t be on my radar. I know my track record with men, the way I’m only in it for the sex and nothing more, the way I’m more likely to have a one-night stand with a random stranger than give a guy I know the chance for a relationship.
I would ruin a man like Marshall, and I would hate myself even more than I already do.
But when his pewter eyes meet mine, silently commanding that I give in and accept what he’s offering, I can’t say no.
He reads me without a spoken yes. Strong arms envelop me, circling my waist and pulling me up against the hard planes of his chest. I catch the scent of his cologne and—who am I?—nuzzle my nose against his pecs.
“I’ve got you,” he rumbles, running a hand over my hair. “I’ve got you, Gwen.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the stream of inevitable tears. There’s no doubt about it—I don’t deserve a guy like Marshall. But for the span of a breath, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like to have him, to wake up each morning and know that he’s in my corner. To come home each night to a hug just like this one, and a man who would move mountains to see me happy. To love and be loved, for once, in return.
And then I push the wisp of imagination away.
If I’ve learned nothing else over the years, it’s that there’s no point in hoping. Life will always bite you in the ass with reality—and it always hurts like a bitch.
16
Hunt
“You owe us steak.”
Hands clutching to my steering wheel, I send a quick, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-car glare at Harrison and Beaumont. “Yeah, I heard you two the first time—thirty minutes ago. Get out of my truck.”
When Gwen called, we were at a Brazilian steakhouse after landing at Logan International Airport from our game against Toronto. No matter the day of the week, Gwen James trumps steak. Always.
Andre leans forward in the back seat, dropping his elbows to the center console and somehow—miraculously—shoving his massive shoulders between the two front seats. “Harrison,” he draws out in a sing-song tone that makes me want to punch him, “we can’t fault him. His fair lady has finally called. He’s ready to make a fool of himself and come in two seconds flat. If anything, we should be giving him steak. He’s going to need it when he embarrasses himself.”
Teeth clenched, I mutter, “I hate you assholes.”
“You don’t.” Duke pats me on the shoulder in an aren’t-you-special kind of way. “But you do owe me a steak.”
I furrow my brow, frustration getting the best of me. “You had steak last night with Jackson in Toronto.”
“It was mediocre. Can’t compare to good Boston steak. The fact that you made us leave after we already put in our order has got to be illegal somewhere.”
I’ve already pointed out that they could have easily taken an Uber home from the North End, but I secretly think they wanted to spend the drive back to Beaumont’s house just giving me shit. If I were in their position, I’d probably do the same. But since I’m the one on a time constraint, they’ve got to go.
“Got it,” I grunt, flicking the locks in my truck so they’ll get the hint. Click, click, click. “Now get the hell out of my truck so I can beat Gwen back to my house.”
Beaumont’s brows shoot inward as his phone goes off. “Give me a sec,” he says, raising one finger up. My head drops back and I stare at the ceiling of my truck. Six years after meeting Gwen James and I finally get my shot with her, and there’s a solid chance it’s going to be blown to smithereens because my teammates are the worst jerks on the planet who don’t realize that trash-talk can be toned down off the ice.
“Hey baby,” Andre practically coos into the phone. On the ice, Andre is King Sin Bin, aka the toughest son of a gun there is in the NHL. Around us, his teammates, he still toes the line of perpetual bastard—it’s in his DNA. Around his fiancée, Zoe, he’s nothing but a pile of mush. “Oh, yeah,” he goes on, glancing out the window to their shared Colonial-style house, “we’re sitting in the driveway . . . Nah, we’re just having a little talk with Hunt here about sex . . . Yes, with Gwen. Yeah . . . yeah”—he taps me on the shoulder and I glance back—“Zo wants to talk to you.”
Jesus Christ.
I motion for the phone but Beaumont only pulls it away from his ear and taps on the screen.
“Hello?” Zoe’s sweet voice comes in loud and tinny. “Hunt?”
Someone just put me out of my misery. “I’m here, Zoe.”
Next to me, Harrison chuckles quietly before drawing out his own phone and tapping away.
“Oh, hey!” If I squint hard enough, I can see Zoe standing in the window of her living room waving at me. The curtain is pulled wide and her shadow is illuminated by the living-room light behind her. “Listen, I’m so glad you’ve decided to give my girl a chance. She really likes you.”
“That’s . . .” Good, I finish in my head. But “good” doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling right now. Fucking anxious does a better job of it, and, even more appropriate—I feel shocked that Zoe knows something like that. Gwen is notoriously tight-lipped when it comes to her emotions, but I do think I’m slowly knocking down those steel walls around her.
Finally.
“Hello?”
My hands inadvertently squeeze the steering wheel at the newcomer’s voice—Charlie Denton’s voice.
I jerk my gaze to my teammate. Harrison only shrugs and palms his phone to his opposite hand. “I thought she’d feel left out if we didn’t include her. She’s known Gwen the longest.”
“That’s right!” Charlie says, and I have a feeling she’s pointing at the phone. “I have known her the longest, and I think we can all agree that our Gwenny has come a long way, and if you break her heart I will break your dick, Hunt.”
Well, things just escalated quickly.
Straightening in my seat, I bite out, “I have no plans to break her heart.”
“We’re honestly more worried he’ll forget how to have sex he’s so excited.”
There is only one thing keeping me from punching Andre and it’s the fact that we have ladies present. “I think I’ll be okay, guys. Now can you please, for the love all things holy, get the fu—”
“Wear a condom,” Charlie tells me, followed by Zoe piping up, “She’s on birth control because of lady issues but best not to get sloppy on the first go-round. Strap up, Hunt.”
“Out.”
My two teammates erupt into laughter as they grab their duffel bags by their feet.
“We’re being dismissed,” Harrison tells his girl as he pops his door open. “I think Hunt is on the verge of coming undone.”
“I see what you did there,” Charlie answers with a robust laugh. “Is he red in the face?”
Harrison pulls his duffel strap over his head and then eyes me. “Red as a damn fire truck.”
I’m going to murder them all.
I honk my horn, not even caring who I might be disturbing in the neighborhood. “Out! I have places to go, people to—”
“Bang?” I hear Zoe shout from Beaumont’s phone. It’s possible I’m also hearing an echo, considering the fact that she’s standing less than fifty feet away. “You better make it an amazing banging experience, Hunt. I know where you sleep and Gwen deserves the best.”
With another obnoxious honk of my horn, my teammates slam their doors shut and then scatter onto Beaumont’s front lawn. I turn up the radio volume to drown out their laughter as I peel out of the driveway.
I can’t get back to my house quickly enough.
17
Hunt
By the time I pull up in front of my house, Gwen’s already waiting.
Seated on my front stoop with what I can only assume is the blueberry pie resting on he
r lap, she looks young and nervous and lonely.
Exactly as she’d looked at her father’s funeral three years ago.
I try not to think of that day often—not because I don’t miss Mark James but because I’ll never forget how I held Gwen in my arms and comforted her, wiped away her tears, and all over a man she barely knew.
A man who’d influenced my life in more ways than one.
Until that moment, I’d never made the connection between Mark James, a man who’d taken me under his wing and showed me that I had a future in hockey, and the girl who’d turned me inside out in college.
If there were any photos of Gwen in Mark’s house, they weren’t in the areas company visited. His desk at my high school was similarly bare of personal items. In passing, he sometimes mentioned a daughter, but never could I have put the two and two together until I’d turned around from paying my respects and saw her standing there, tears welling in her eyes and uncertainty slouching her shoulders.
In one moment, Gwen James had rendered me speechless all over again.
That day, I offered her all the comfort I could—and she never asked me why I was there or how I knew her father. I need to tell her at some point, but the worry has always lingered that I’ll make her feel even more shitty about the situation with her dad. That a guy like me had considered her father one of his greatest mentors . . . when she hadn’t even seen the man in years.
Sometimes, I can’t help but feel as though she’d rather not know of my connection to her father since she’s never once brought it up.
With a deep breath, I shove my fingers through my hair and then climb out of my truck, slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder after grabbing it from the back seat.
Her smile is slight, unsure, and it takes everything in me not to lift her up and stamp a hard kiss on her mouth. After years of waiting, though, I’m not claiming my first kiss on my doorstep.
