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

Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

Tiff

I expected his house to be ostentatious—a four-lot wide monstrosity like one of those insane mansions the local tech CEOs have.

Instead…it’s homey.

Oh, it’s big.

My apartment could fit ten times over, just on the first floor.

Not to mention his bedroom—and nope, I didn’t even protest when he gave me a rushed tour of the downstairs before drawing me up to the second story, down the hall, through a pair of double doors…

And into this gorgeous master suite.

It’s clearly expensive and luxurious, the carpet so plush my feet sink into it, the bed linens so soft they feel like silk as I trail my fingers over them. Then there’s the bathroom with its huge tub, beautiful steam shower, and walk-in closet the size of a football field (and it’s only half filled with suits).

Speaking of which, Jean-Mi moves toward a dresser on the far side, tugs open a drawer, and pulls out a T-shirt, bringing it over to me.

“For you to sleep in, buttercup,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over my cheek and pressing the shirt into my hand. “I think Chrissy left some face shit here, I’ll go grab it for you.”

“I don’t need?—”

“You go on into the bathroom,” he orders—softly, but it’s still an order. “I’ll be right back.”

“Jean-Mi,” I say softly. “Please stop.”

He stills, eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Your ex showing up bothered you,” I whisper. “But that’s not what’s still bothering you.”

It was something that Pascal found.

It triggered Jean-Mi.

And I can feel his emotions roiling just beneath the surface of his skin.

“Please talk to me.”

His face…it’s scary, and I brace, waiting for him to snap at me, to take his anger out on me.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his big chest expands and contracts on a breath, and then he closes his eyes for a moment. “When she was a teenager, Chrissy was kidnapped.”

I gasp.

Thankfully, that doesn’t make him stop talking.

“She thought she was meeting a boy interested in her. Instead, she was taken and I had the worst couple of days of my life. It was right after I moved here, right after Titan started getting a lot of press. I thought I wouldn’t get her back, especially after the ransom note arrived.”

Unable to stand her, not touching him, I shift closer, slowly wrap my arms around his middle.

And am full of gratitude when he holds me in return.

“Pascal found her, and she and I worked through a lot of trauma afterward to live normally, but I’ve never forgotten the feeling of know what happened to her, knowing it was my fault, knowing I couldn’t do shit to get her back on my own.” He shakes his head. “I failed as a parent. I didn’t keep her safe, and she suffered for years because of it.”

“Honey,” I whisper, my eyes damp as I struggle with what to say. “That must have been so hard on both of you.”

He brushes a tear that escapes away. “I fucked up after, went crazy trying to protect her, and it took a long time for us to find a balance.”

“Tonight that balance shifted?”

Pain in bright blue eyes. “She was trying to get into Chrissy’s cameras—and who knows what else? My daughter was put at risk again because of my shit, and I can do fuck all about it. If I go crazy with protections Chrissy, I’ll damage our relationship. If I don’t, she could get hurt. So, I’m stuck here, trusting Pascal and his team to be doing something I should be doing.”

This is…

I empathize with everything he’s saying.

I just…don’t have a good solution to fix it.

Life is complicated and messy and we have to put our trust in other people and?—

That’s scary.

“Will you promise me something?”

He takes another deep breath. “Yes, buttercup.”

“Will you talk to Chrissy? She’s going to be a mother, and she’s smart. She’ll take reasonable precautions, especially if Pascal is giving suggestions rather than her overprotective dad.”

I see it then.

The twisting emotions flattening out, settling, just slightly.

“I can do that, baby.”

“Good, Jean-Mi.”

Soft eyes. A gentle hand brushing down my back?—

Then nudging me toward the bathroom. “Change, buttercup.”

Considering the day he’s had, I decide to let the order slide.

Especially when he says, “I’ll go hunt down that face stuff.” A beat. “And give Chrissy a quick call.”

Warmth in my belly.

Gentleness in my heart.

I nod, watch him slip from the room, then walk back into the bathroom and start taking off my clothes, folding them carefully and setting them on the counter—though I leave my underwear on.

I’m just tugging the shirt over my head when I hear the knock on the door I’d pushed mostly closed.

It opens as I’m drawing the tee down over my breasts.

One glance in the mirror tells me enough.

He’s seen me.

All of me.

Or I guess all of me minus the small bits of flesh covered by my underwear.

I yank at the shirt, tugging it farther down.

“Baby,” he murmurs, stepping toward me. There’s a plink as he sets a bottle on the counter then he’s dropping his hands to my waist, turning me to face him. “You’re beautiful.”

I inhale.

Because he means those words.

I know he means them.

But also…I haven’t ever felt beautiful.

I know my face is cute, but my body is curvy, bordering on too large—or at least when compared to the never-ending scroll of gorgeous women I see on my social media feeds. But more than my curves, I know I’m not like them in any way. I have lots of scars from my procedures. My belly cannot be considered anything close to flat. My butt is decent, but my thighs are large and one of my breasts is bigger than the other.

I’m so far from beautiful it’s not even funny.

Fingers under my chin, tilting my face up.

“Buttercup,” he says, those striking blue eyes holding mine. “Talk to me.”

“Did you speak to Chrissy?”

He nods. “We’ll set up a time to talk to Pascal and his team, work out something that feels good for both of us.”

Relief slides through me. “Good.”

That hand shifts, his face dropping closer. “Now,” he orders, “tell me what went through your mind when I walked in.”

I inhale, holding the air in my lungs.

I want to brush him off, to do anything but talk about this crap.

But…he opened up to me.

How can I not meet him in the same place?

“For years my body was my enemy. Doing nothing but making me sick. And then it was a tool the doctors manipulated to get me well.” My throat is tight, so I pause and just breathe for a second.

He doesn’t rush me.

“I didn’t know what cancer was when I was first diagnosed,” I whisper. “But by the end, it was the scariest word I ever heard uttered. There was always the worry of a reoccurrence—always is, I guess—even after they gave me the other C word—cured.” I close my eyes, exhale. “I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m learning to understand that my body is no longer my worst enemy, but…” I peel open my lids. “I don’t think I look like the women you’re used to.”

His face?—

It makes my throat grow even tighter.

“You are beautiful,” he says again, his fingers brushing along the edge of a scar on my abdomen, one he must have spotted before I finished pulling the shirt down. “Definitely on the outside, but more importantly, here.” He touches the spot above my heart. “On the inside. And, baby, that beauty takes my breath away.”

My eyes burn.

“Because you’re sweet and smart, kind and funny.” He lifts the edge of the shirt, exposing the rest of my scar. It’s from one of several abdominal surgeries I had and he touches it reverently. “ This is beautiful. It’s a reminder that you’re here. That I get to be here with you.”

“What if it comes back?” I whisper.

He settles his forehead against mine, palm flattening on my belly.

He’s touching all of my scars—one at the top of his pointer finger, another at the base of his pinky, one under his palm, along with the smaller marks left from less invasive surgeries.

It’s a roadmap of my health.

A reminder every time I look in the mirror.

There are more marks in other places—from central lines and grafts and other procedures—but I don’t protest as he lifts me onto the counter, slowly draws his T-shirt up, gathering it beneath my breasts, and bends, his mouth hovering just above my skin.

“Smart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to each of the reminders. “Sweet. Kind. Funny. Beautiful.”

He lifts the shirt higher, and even though I’m more exposed than I’ve ever been in my life, I can’t bring myself to stop him. Not when every kiss is soothing another hurt buried deep inside me.

His kiss to the scar above my heart is so gentle I nearly melt. “Smart,” he says again.

Another to the one on my biceps. “Sweet.”

Several around my neck. “Kind. Funny.”

One near my armpit. “Beautiful.”

“Jean-Mi?—”

His lips trail down, tracing along the outside of my breast, making me shiver. But he doesn’t drift closer to my nipple, beaded and aching for his lips. He drags his mouth upward, back along my throat, tracing the line of my jaw, not stopping until he’s pressing his lips to the spot behind my ear.

His touches are reverent, soft…more beautiful than anything I’ve ever experienced.

And they’ve left me hungry.

Before I can act on that hunger, he lifts his head, steps back, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out a spare toothbrush for me, putting a bead of toothpaste on it.

Then his fingers are working at the buttons on his shirt.

I feel my eyes go wide and that hungry grows as the material parts, exposing a broad, tanned chest.

I’ve seen it clad in a tight T-shirt.

This is a hundred times better.

Defined pecs, a smattering of hair, a flat stomach with a hint of strong muscles etched below.

And more hunger.

More better.

He shrugs out of his shirt, tossing it into a hamper in the corner of the room then peels off his socks, one at a time. When he flicks open the button on his slacks, shoves them down, leaving him clad only in a tight pair of black boxer briefs I feel my cheeks go hot.

They cut off mid-thigh—and what a glorious set of thighs they are.

And as he bends to pick up his socks, dumping them along with the pants into the hamper, I get another treat.

His butt.

Good Lord, his butt is amazing. Plump and round and I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to take a nibble out of someone’s ass.

But I sure do with Jean-Michel’s.

He straightens and spins to face me.

Which is when I process…

He’s got scars too—several on his forearms, one on his chest, another on his right thigh—but as he stands there, letting me inspect him, I don’t see them as something ugly.

It’s gorgeous.

He’s gorgeous.

And strong. And beautiful. And kind.

“Good?” he whispers.

I nod. “So good.”

Mouth quirking, he lifts me down from the counter, brushes his lips over mine.

“Wash your face, buttercup,” he orders, knuckles trailing along my cheek before he turns and moves through the door, not pausing as he tosses the next command over his shoulder,

“Then come join me in bed.”