Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 13

Thirteen

Tiff

I slowly peel back my lids, the sound coming from a distance, nagging at the corners of my consciousness.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

I groan and pull the pillow over my hand.

It's too early. It's always too early.

Whose bright idea was it to have a class at eighty-thirty in the morning, anyway?

Or maybe the better question is, whose idea was it to take that 8:30AM class?

With another pathetic groan, I put the pillow to the side and reach for my phone. It’s plugged into its charger on my nightstand.

And I freeze.

Because I know I wasn't the one who did that.

I left it near my laptop, my books, my notecards, and my pens.

But it's plugged in on my nightstand.

And as I process that, as I know I wasn't the one to have done that, the memories come flooding back into my brain in a rush of fear and desire, fantasy and need, disbelief and something softer, more vulnerable.

Something intoxicating, addictive.

Desperate .

I hadn’t wanted the night, the fantasy, to end.

“Come on, Tiff,” I say, hyping myself up as I shut off the alarm and rub my hands over my face to fully wake up. “It was one weird night—okay, it was one weird day , but it's over. And now it’s time to get back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

That’s enough to get me out of bed.

The rest gets me moving to the bathroom so I can start getting ready for the day.

He's a billionaire.

He runs more businesses than I could ever hope to even keep track of.

It was a one-off, and likely I'll never see him again unless it's on TV because the cameras have panned to him during an Eagles game.

Which makes me sad.

Ice cream in the freezer.

Dave so freaking terrified he’ll hopefully never bother me again.

A plate of food.

An order to get into my jammies.

Strong yet gentle arms holding me close.

I sigh softly then tuck a tiny piece of last night deep into my heart, stowing it carefully with all my other treasured memories.

And then…I see about getting ready for my morning.

I didn't study last night.

I'll need to cram in the rest of my homework between my two classes, need to make sure I'm prepped for the quiz that's coming my way today, and then I'll need to find a way to get something to eat before I get Roxie after school.

Brit and Stefan have always said their pantry and fridge are open to me, but I don't like to take advantage of their kindness. So, I'll make a lunch and I'll down it before I go to the library and cram for that quiz. Then I get to spend my afternoon and evening with some of the best people I know—with Roxie and Brit and Stefan before Brit goes off to play for the Gold.

I'll do homework that's not mine.

Cook a dinner that's not for me.

Watch a woman play hockey on TV who’s not my mom, who I have no other connection to other than through a job, but who’s become more family than I've ever had before.

And I’ll root for her. Hard.

And somewhere in between all of that, I'll find time to call my dad's doctor, and I'll make sure I pick up his prescription and that the nurses are on time and taking care of them as they should be.

And then…

I sigh.

Then I'll come home, sit in my quiet apartment, and try to remember all the things I have to be grateful for…

And I still won’t quite be able to tuck down the loneliness that has clung to me for decades.

Only, directly on the heels on the thought, there's a knock at the door.

Not like Jean-Michel’s pounding last night, and not like when Dave comes by, yelling and screaming and assaulting the wood, sending fear splintering through my insides.

It's just a knock, maybe even a polite one.

I’ve just finished gathering my hair into a ponytail, so I move out of my bathroom, twisting the band around my hair to secure it as I go.

But as I reach it, my stomach twists, worry gnawing at my bones. My feet draw to a halt.

Did management catch wind of Jean-Michel’s actions from last night?

Did Dave report him and now the police are knocking?

That won’t look good.

What if I get evicted?

What if?—

“You’re being insane,” I mutter, moving toward the peephole. “Standing here worrying does nothing.”

But when I look through the peephole and see who's standing on the other side, that worry changes.

It doesn't go away.

It transforms into a different kind of fear.

The fear of wanting something more.

And then I watch as Jean-Michel lifts his hand as though to knock again and I can’t stop myself, not even if my life depended on it.

Can't stop myself from unlatching the lock, from twisting the handle, from pulling open the door.

“Morning, buttercup,” he says softly.

My pulse speeds, nerves ramping up.

At least until I notice…he's rumpled. Deliciously so.

And then that worry changes again as I step back and motion for him to come into my apartment.

“Did you even sleep last night?”

Something comes over his face I can't read—maybe it's softness, maybe it's vulnerability, maybe it's a flicker of annoyance that I seem to have noticed something about him he didn't want me to see.

But I do notice.

So, I take him by the hand, closing the door behind him and locking it.

“I don’t need much sleep, baby,” he says.

“Everyone needs sleep, Jean-Mi.”

His brows flick up and I realize what I’ve done.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I—I don’t know where that came from.”

“Don’t apologize.” His mouth ticks up on one side. “I like it.”

My cheeks feel hot, but I ignore that. “Did you need a place to crash?” I ask quietly.

He’s still for a long moment then an emotion flashes through his blue eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Confusion ripples through me. “What?”

“We don’t have time, but we have to make time.”

I frown. “Jean-Michel?—”

“Jean-Mi,” he corrects, stepping toward me.

“I-I—” I bite my lip. “What?”

“I like it when you call me Jean-Mi.” He’s close now, near enough that I get the hint of spice from his cologne. It’s faint, likely because it seems as though he hasn’t been home to reapply it. Concern blooms again, but before I can give voice to it, his big, rough palm is cupping my jaw. “Now, buttercup, we don’t have time, but we need to make time?—”

“Don’t have time for what?”

“For me to kiss you the way I need to.”