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

Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

Jean-Michel

My tee hits her at mid-thigh, which is already dangerous enough.

But knowing what’s under the material? The lush breasts, the pink nipples that call out for fingers and tongue, the narrow curve of her waist, the gorgeous flare of her hips…

She’s all woman, and she has no clue how goddamned sexy she is.

What a temptation she is.

My body was my enemy.

I need to hold it together, to control myself.

She shared…shit that makes me want to rage and punch my fist through the wall, shit that makes me want to scream up at whatever God purports to exist and ask why the fuck he does this shit to kids.

But she shared .

So, I can find something to punch later, something to scream at when she can’t hear me.

Fuck knows, I did that plenty after Chrissy was kidnapped—yelled about the unfairness, punched and broke and kicked…and then thanked all the gods she was recovered safely, even though I knew it made me a fucking hypocrite, at least when it comes to going to church.

I exhale.

Shove the past down.

Chrissy needs me here and now.

Not stuck in the darkness.

“Come here, buttercup,” I order when she hesitates in the doorway of the bathroom, teeth nibbling at her bottom lip.

She doesn’t move, not for a long moment, but just when I’m about to sit up, toss the covers back, and go get her, she breaks through her reluctance, turning slightly to flick out the bathroom lights, hem of my shirt riding up, giving me a teasing glimpse of that sweet ass.

Christ, she’s gorgeous.

A moment later, that teasing glimpse is gone and she’s moving to the bed.

Not slowly. Not each step filled with hesitation.

But like…now that she’s made the decision, come hell or high water, she’s intent on following it through.

Pride ripples through me, and I reach for the edge of the blankets, draw them back.

“Climb in, baby.”

Eyes on mine, she does just that.

The mattress dips as she puts a knee on it then crawls in.

“This feels weird,” she whispers, slowly lying down beside me, facing me, sexy body stretching out alongside mine.

I twitch the blankets over us, stare at her in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. “What’s weird?” I ask softly.

“This—being here. Being”—she tucks one hand beneath her cheek and sighs—“this comfortable with you. I’ve told you things…” Her eyes close, throat working. “I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone, and it’s…”

“Scary.”

She nods.

“I feel that too, buttercup.”

Her hand takes mine. “Are we insane?”

“Probably.” I squeeze her fingers. “But nothing has ever felt more right, has it?”

A shake of her head, the dark strands of her hair moving back and forth on her pillow. “No.”

“I can’t predict what the future holds,” I tell her, smoothing back a strand when it drifts over her cheek. “But I like you, baby. And the more I’ve learned about you, the deeper I’ve fallen.”

Her mouth curves. “Really?”

I trace the edge of her smile. “Really.”

“I like that.”

“Me too.” I draw her closer. “And I like that I can talk to you, can share things with you I’ve never told anyone else.”

“I like that too,” she whispers, free hand lifting, settling on my chest, just above my heart. “And I won’t tell anyone what you shared, I promise.”

Sweet.

So fucking sweet.

“I trust you, buttercup.”

Dumb maybe. But I haven’t survived and thrived this long without trusting my instincts.

Tiff is one of the good ones—I feel that in my heart, my soul.

“I trust you too.” Her voice is soft, but it’s edged with fatigue.

I’m not the only one who’s had a long day.

“Sleep, buttercup.”

“I need you to know that I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” Her voice is sleepy, and it sounds like she’s about two seconds away from dropping off.

“I know,” I say, slipping my arm beneath her pillow, sliding my other one over her waist, and rolling us, tucking her against me as I settle onto my back. “But it’s time to sleep now, buttercup.”

I expect more words, or at least a minimal protest.

But she just settles in, her head on my shoulder, her arm draped over my stomach, her leg tangled with mine.

And I fall asleep to the thought that I’ve never felt anything sweeter.

Unfortunately, I don’t stay asleep.

The phone ringing pulls me out of my sleep, and I frown for a moment, not recognizing the sound.

Then realizing it’s because the call isn’t coming from my phone.

Tiff is still sleeping, the warm weight of her body against mine the sweetest type of pleasure.

I don’t want the call to disturb her, so I shift carefully, reaching over her and snagging her purse, pulling out her phone, silencing the ringing.

It almost immediately starts right back up again, and I can’t help but see the screen.

See that it states “Mom” is calling.

“Dammit,” I whisper and make a split second decision, swiping my finger across the phone’s screen and lifting it to my ear as the call connects. “Hello?” I say softly, slipping out of Tiff’s embrace, moving to the edge of the bed and sitting up.

When there’s no answer, I repeat, “Hello?”

“Where is my daughter?”

It’s a screech, and it’s so fucking loud that I pull it away from my ear with a wince. “Your daughter is sleeping,” I say quietly, shifting off the bed and heading for the bathroom. But as I move that way, I glance toward the clock on my bedside table.

And rage begins to roil under my skin again.

“I want to speak to my daughter! I want to speak to her right now!”

I exhale quietly as I close the door. “I’m going to need you to take a breath and talk to me.”

“I don’t know who the heck you are, but I need to speak to my daughter! Right freaking now!”

“Is this an emergency?” I ask. My voice is calm, but only because I don’t want to disturb Tiff.

“Yes, it’s an emergency! Tiffany didn’t come by and cook me dinner tonight and what the nurse made is shit. She needs to come over right now and fix it.”

I wonder how many times Tiff has dropped everything for her parents, for this fucking harpy, in the middle of the night…and my hold on the rage inside me threatens to loosen.

“It’s two-thirty in the morning,” I grind out. “I’m sure you have food in your fridge. Make yourself a sandwich or something.”

“Excuse—”

“You call back and I’ll hang up,” I say.

“I—”

“You do it again and I’ll hang up again,” I tell her. “And I can do it all fucking night because what I can’t do is let someone treat Tiff like shit. Get yourself a fucking bowl of cereal or hell, eat that shit dry, but don’t call back unless it’s for a real reason.”

“I want to talk to my daughter.” She speaking more quietly this time.

Small fucking victories.

“I’ll have her call you when she wakes up.”

There’s a long moment of quiet.

Then, thank fuck, she says, “Okay.”

“Great.” I hang up.

Drop Tiff’s phone onto the bathroom counter and grip the honed edge of the granite, hanging my head and breathing deep and slow until I no longer want to punch something.

Then I flick off the light, grab her phone, and quietly make my way back into the bedroom.

Phone on the nightstand.

Body in bed.

I exhale silently, close my eyes, and then?—

Tiff is climbing on top of me.

“Wh—?”

I don’t get to finish the question.

Because then her mouth is on mine.