Hot Damn (Hot as Puck #3)

19. Cami

Cami

M y hip aches. I can’t find any position that doesn’t send pain shooting down my leg or up my spine. Shifting, I try to ease the discomfort. Except nothing I do does.

When I get my hands on Kenneth, I’m going to knock his fucking teeth out.

“Hey. You okay?”

I glance up at Beckett. “Yes.” The word sounds like it’s been ground into dust.

“Sounds like it,” he says with a smirk. “Can I get you another drink?”

“No. You can get me out of here.”

His eyebrows shoot up, his eyes wide and shocked for a moment before concern floods them. “How much pain are you in? Should I take you to the hospital?”

“No. I don’t need a hospital. I need a hot bath and for all these people to take their concern somewhere else.”

“Cami.” His says my name with so much feeling that my eyes water.

Dammit.

“They’re worried about you. ”

“I get that. I do. But it’s…” I try to think of a word that won’t make me seem ungrateful but can’t. “Suffocating.”

“No one’s hovering.” Beckett looks around and I follow his gaze.

He’s right. No one has hovered. They send me smiles or cocked eyebrows on occasion and I smile to let them know I’m fine. Except I’ve been doing it for two hours.

I’m tired.

Sore.

Cranky.

And angry.

So fucking angry.

It’s my own fault I’m siting here on a bruised butt. I should have known Kenneth was up to no good when I first spotted him. Instead, I let Whit lead the way outside and when he grabbed her arm…

Fury rose up so hard and fast I choked on it.

Her gasp of shock, the way she wrenched herself away had me acting before thinking. If I’d just taken a second to ground my feet instead of…

No. There had been no time to waste, at least that’s what my instincts told me so I’d shouldered her behind me as she stepped back and put my hand out to shove Kenneth away.

Except I missed the step and my feet got tangled and when my hand landed on Kenneth’s chest, he lost his footing too. Only he grabbed me for stability and because he was a few steps below, gravity took over and I was falling forward with nothing to break my fall.

Especially when that chicken-shit managed to keep upright and took off.

“Hey.” Beckett’s hand cradles my jaw and lifts my face until our eyes connect. “You can’t hunt him down and kill him.”

“Why not?” It doesn’t even enter my head that he’s able to read me. Hell, my murderous thoughts are probably written all over my face .

Beckett chuckles. “Well, for a start, there are at least six people in here, no, make that nine, who want to get in line before you.”

I mentally count heads and realize he’s counted every adult here. The fact he thinks Walker, Bran, Chase, and himself can be included alongside Mom and Dad, and my three best friends brings tears to my eyes. “Oh.”

“So, how about I do as you asked?”

“Huh?” I sniff back the threatening tears.

“I’ll get you out of here to somewhere you can have that hot bath in peace.”

I look over at Mom and Dad. The first thing they said when they got here was they’d take me home with them after dinner. As much as their house has always been home, I don’t want to go there.

I don’t want to go to my apartment either.

“Where are you going to find that bath?” I ask quietly while my eyes remain on my parents.

“My house. Whit is staying here overnight. Chase and Natalie want to give her a distraction from what happened and promise to call if she wakes with a nightmare or can’t sleep or whatever. My house will be empty.” His gaze bores into mine. “Well, except for me.”

An image of his newly fitted whirlpool tub pops into my head. “The tub in your bathroom?”

“Yes. It’s perfect for sore muscles and bruises.”

I see uncertainty, concern, a touch of anger, in his eyes and I know the later isn’t directed at me but for me. The other two, well, he’s obviously worried about me. Everyone is. The uncertainty is either about what my answer will be or having me alone in his house.

There’s a small niggle of worry about being alone with him in my chest. The more I’m around Beckett, the more I like him, and if I let him care for me tonight, if I let him make sure I’ve got what I need, what I want, that like is going to slide deeper .

I don’t know if I want that. I don’t need the complication to our relationship if like tips over into more.

The physical attraction I feel for Beckett has been the abstract kind. He’s hot, I’m not blind, except I think I’ve been in denial because the other men here, including Dad, are attractive and I readily admit that.

But those men don’t have my nerves buzzing. Don’t have my stomach swooping. And they certainly don’t have my ovaries clenching when I see them with their kids or someone else’s.

No. Beckett Higgison is the inspiration of those sensations.

“O-okay.” I lick my lips. Swallow the lump in my throat. “Get me out of here.”

He studies me for a moment, looking for what, I don’t know, but eventually, he says, “Done,” as he stands up straight.

I’m not sure what’s more shocking. The speed in which we’re in Beckett’s car heading to his house or that no one—not even my parents—protested us leaving.

I saw Beckett have words with Dad and I know it was tense but they shook hands at the end and Dad gave me a light hug before ushering me into the front seat of Beckett’s SUV.

Everyone had concerned looks on their faces and I understand why but I could do without the reminder of what happened this afternoon.

Beckett hit the button for the seat warmer when he started the car and the radiating heat helps soothe my hip a little. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to shoot me a quick smile. “And thank you. For being there for Whit.”

I scoff. “She didn’t need me. I’m sure she would have gotten away and run back into the building.”

“Yes. No doubt. I’ve taught her how to take care of herself. And I’m not thanking you for saving her. I’m thanking you for being there for her.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he means. My brain is a little fuzzy due to the pain I can’t seem to get in front of with over the counter meds. His next words help.

“She’s only had me to stand up for her since Mama Dot died.”

I turn my head where it rests on the back of my seat. “She has all of us now.”

“I know.” The side of his mouth I can see curls up. “She’s catching on to that quicker than I am.”

“Kids adapt faster than adults.”

“They do. And Whit is quicker than most kids her age.”

“I’ve said it before but it bears repeating. She’s a remarkable young woman. You should be proud of her and you.”

“I am. Myself more so recently.”

The hum that vibrates my throat could be agreement or censure. I’ve gotten to know the Higgisons over the last few weeks and what I’ve seen leads me to believe Beckett has a high standard of what he should be, as a hockey player, as a man, as Whitney’s father, and he’s always seen himself fall short in the latter.

Why he could think that is beyond me. She’s a polite, bright, caring girl, and also brave. The way she stood up and admitted her mistake—or what she saw as one because of the fallout from it—shows she’s not afraid of the hard stuff or owning up to being wrong.

“I think you’re both remarkable.”

The chuckle that rumbles through Beckett’s chest and fills the cab is laced with disbelief.

“I do. You’re one of the top players in the NHL and while getting to the top of that tier of athletes you raised a daughter basically on your own. That’s remarkable, Beckett.”

He shrugs. “If you say so.”

“I do. And others would agree. Why don’t you see yourself that way?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer and when he pulls into the garage at his house, I think he isn’t going to. Except when he switches off the engine and waits for the roller door to close, he grips the wheel with white knuckles and stares straight ahead, the line of his jaw tense.

“I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. But the results of those is Whit, and she’s never been, could never be, a mistake.”

He pops his door as he unbuckles his belt and is out of the truck, striding around the front of it while I sit there and stare.

He’s just given me another small glimpse into his life. A normal person might brush aside his words, think they’re about becoming a teenage parent, but I’m not the average person.

I make my living reading between the lines. Ferreting out the finer details that make the articles I write more in-depth, more three dimensional.

I’ve been intrigued by Beckett and Whitney from the beginning, from the second Draper yelled his question about Beckett having a seventeen-year-old daughter I’ve been consciously and subconsciously rolling their story around my head.

I want to know everything.

And not for an article.

I want to know everything about Beckett because that like I’ve been acknowledging is definitely moving along into the more column.

I sit there so long, my mind spinning with the possibilities of the mistakes he referred to, that he comes back and pulls open my door.

“Need help getting out?” he asks with a frown.

“No. I’ve got it.” To show him I have, I unhook my belt and twist to the side. It takes him a moment to step back and give me room to get out.

Once I’ve got my feet on the floor, he tips his head toward the door leading to the kitchen. “I’ll go up and get the bath ready.”

“Okay.”

“Take your time. I’ll find something of Whit’s you can sleep in too.” He turns to go before snapping back again to add, “And you can sleep in my bed. ”

The images his words conjure have me stiffening, from shock or arousal—a little of both. “I?—”

“No, not with me! Shit!” He scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

Laughter bubbles up and I put a hand over my mouth to stop it. I don’t know why I think this conversation is funny. But I’m tired, in pain, and honestly struggling to understand the emotions I feel around this man.

“Yeah, okay, laugh at me putting my foot in my mouth.” He smiles at me. “Take your time coming upstairs and if the steps prove too difficult, give me a shout. Okay?”

He dips down so our eyes are level, his gaze locked on mine when I answer. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I mean it, Cami, if you need help getting up the stairs, call out.”

“I will. Promise.” I don’t want to but I’m not stupid and if it hurts too much to climb to the first floor I will let him help me. The last thing I need is to topple down another flight of stairs.

“All right then. See you upstairs.” He leaves me without looking back until he opens the door to the house when he glances over his shoulder to say, “Don’t worry about setting the alarm. I’ll come back down and do that.”

When he’s out of sight, a rush of air deflates my lungs and drops my shoulders. The motion brings a small whimper with it. I hope the hot bath Beckett is providing gives me some relief because if it doesn’t, I’m going to have to give in and head to the hospital or an all-night clinic to get something stronger than the over the counter meds I’ve been taking.

With slow, measured steps, I make my way inside. The single step up into the house pulls muscles and skin bruised from my fight with the concrete steps. The slipper-socks Natalie gave me help me shuffle my way to the staircase.

But when I look up, the steps appear to go on forever, and the thought of climbing them, of lifting my legs has me whimpering. Loudly .

Beckett appears at the top of the stairs, the frown on his face aimed my way. “You okay? What happened?”

He heads down, taking the steps two at a time, until he’s right beside me.

“Cami?”

“It hurts.” I can’t keep the tears out of my voice. Or off my face.

And when Beckett scoops me up in his arms and cradles me against his chest, I can’t hold back the sobs.