Chapter 25
Make it hurt
Harley
Iwake up with a jolt, my eyes flying open.
Kaz is nowhere to be seen.
Disappointment washes over me.
I run a hand through my hair and exhale a long breath.
These nightmares are going to be the end of me.
Did I say anything incriminating?
Crap.
I sit there for a long beat, as I take in my surroundings, thanking my lucky stars Kaz Lindstrom came to my rescue.
It’s going to be a hell of a downgrade when I move out of this bedroom and into a small apartment I can afford.
His carriage house has become my safe place.
No. He’s become my safe place.
The man is under my skin and burrowing deeper every minute I spend with him.
My eyes linger on the empty armchair where my knight in shining armor has been sleeping since he took me into his home.
Only the Hermes blanket I could never afford rests neatly folded on the armchair.
My gaze swings to the other side of the bed.
The sunken pillow and rumpled sheets indicate it wasn’t a dream.
Kaz slept in my bed last night.
I reach out and touch his side of the bed.
It’s no longer warm.
I flashback to the illegally hot scene from last night.
Even though his lips never touched mine, I was turned on like a light switch.
If he still wants me to be his fake girlfriend and practice kissing, based on last night’s scene that was straight out of a spicy romance novel, the moment his lips touch mine, I’ll combust.
“Fuck, Harley, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear my name on your lips as I bring you pleasure.”
No man has ever said anything close to that to me.
My heart constricts.
He said that in the heat of the moment. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I know better than to get feelings for my grumpy on the outside and kind-hearted on the inside roommate.
I shouldn’t be clinging onto the one man that took me in so I wouldn’t end up living in the streets.
Still, that neglected side of me that’s yearning for someone to care for her—to love her—relishes in having a successful man like Kaz say those things or look at me the way he does.
I wish I was worthy of a man like Kaz.
I wish I could be real girlfriend material.
I wish I was more than a girl with a trailer trash family.
My fucking trailer trash family.
I rub both hands over my face.
He saw the name flashing on my screen.
Kaz is going to have a thousand questions today, and I’m going to have to find a clever way to skirt every single one of them.
I hate lying, stretching the truth, or resorting to avoidance, but I don’t have a choice—
Loud music reverberates on the other side of the door.
I frown.
It’s seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, is he watching an action movie this early?
The epic soundtrack is louder now.
Overlaid on top of it, a strange sound resonates.
Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
What the hell?
I pull the sheet off and slide out of bed.
I slip my feet into my slippers and make my way to the door.
The music is so overwhelming, it’s like sitting in a movie theater with surround sound. I go to the bathroom, take care of business, brush my teeth, and wash my face. I grab an elastic and pile up my bed hair on top of my head.
I exit the bathroom, determined to find out what’s going on.
I follow the sound to Kaz’s home gym, located on the opposite side of the top floor, since the wall near his workout sanctuary is made of glass, I stand there dumbfounded.
Kaz is a masterpiece, wearing nothing more than navy-blue sport shorts.
Mother of God.
My entire body flushes because… damn, Kaz Lindstrom shirtless is a work of art.
Six foot four inches of pure muscle.
I’m sure I’m invading his privacy in so many different ways because I shouldn’t be ogling him like this, but my feet are glued to the floor.
I clamp my thighs together. This is fifty shades of wrong, but I’m beyond turned on by the sight of him looking like a Roman gladiator.
I let out a breathy hiss, fighting the urge to run back to my room to take care of my neglected pussy—something I haven’t done in so long, I can’t remember the last time I played with my clit. I’m sure if I keep clamping my thighs together, I could come just by salivating all over him.
My eyes roam over his chiseled body and they widen when they land on his muscular bicep. The tattoo of a warrior Viking is menacing and alluring at the same time. From this angle, I can’t tell if he has a tattoo on his right arm, but if he does, I’m sure it’s badass.
No wonder his grandmother gave him a Slavic name that means ‘destroyer of peace’ borne by kings and princes.
The sight of him looking broody and feral is definitely destroying my panties.
My attention shifts to the dummy he’s whacking with a stick.
It’s like he’s fighting an enemy.
Damn. The man is intense in everything he does.
Kaz moves around the dummy, allowing me a chance to read the slogan on the dummy’s oversized black t-shirt––’Make it hurt’.
Kaz swivels around and does a roundhouse kick, nearly decapitating the dummy.
I shuffle back a few steps.
Whoa.
When he lands on both feet, he’s staring straight at me.
I blink.
I blink again.
My gaze is fixated to the smattering of chest hair.
So yummy.
My eyes lower.
Those shorts that cover the essentials, showcase his V muscles and a tempting happy trail.
God.
He places a hand at his waist and changes his stance.
My eyes bounce up to meet his.
He’s sporting an expression of annoyance. Exasperation. Grumpiness.
I disrupted his workout.
I plaster a huge smile on my face and wave. “Morning.” From the other side of the glass, he can only read my lips.
For a few breaths, he studies me, his massive, sweaty chest heaving.
He waves me in.
I hustle toward the door.
He drops the stick, heads to a console table, grabs his phone, and taps on it, killing the epic soundtrack seeping from the surround sound speakers.
His sparkling blue eyes lift to meet mine. “Morning, Goldilocks. I hope the music didn’t wake you up. I tried to keep it low.”
That was low?
“I was awake.” My eyes slide to the dummy before landing on Kaz. “The Viking tattoo is stunning. What’s on your other arm?”
He angles his body.
The intricate tattoo is an eye-catching homage to the sport that made him a legend, with his jersey number—22—proudly displayed.
“I admire people who are brave enough to get tattoos,” I say. “I’m too chicken for that kind of pain.”
“I endured the pain to commemorate three of my biggest achievements as a hockey player,” he says. “I got one after each Stanley Cup.” He points to his left arm, his right, and his right forearm.
“No tattoos for your Olympic medals?”
He shakes his head. “Winning at the Olympics was an incredible honor, but at the same time, it was a bit of a pipe dream. Canada and Russia are the Goliaths in this game and hard to dethrone. When I got drafted in the NHL, I set a goal to hoist the Stanley Cup at least three times—two more than my father.”
He picks up the stick and does a little dance, shuffling on the balls of his bare feet.
Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
“I’m guessing you don’t adhere to the philosophy of a lazy Sunday morning,” I say.
“Nope.”
He drives his point by striking the dummy four more times in quick succession.
“What has that poor schmuck done to warrant such mistreatment?”
“Escrima is the national martial art of the Philippines.”
Okay.
He points to the dummy. “Jamison helps me work out my emotions.” He cracks his neck.
Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
Jamison wobbles.
I’m walking on dangerous territory here, but I have to know. “Emotions related to the confrontation you had with Chett at the gala? Or…” I bite the inside of my lip.
His eyes darken from ocean-blue to a stormy, dark-blue. “From the moment the security guards escorted Chett out of the building, he was no longer my problem. I don’t care enough about the brat to let him upset me.”
I flinch at his words.
He’s beating up on poor Jamison because of me?
He approaches.
For a long beat, he stares down at me.
I cross my arms over my chest and give myself a hug.
Here goes nothing.
I inhale in a deep breath, expecting the inevitable coercive military level interrogation.
Kaz lets out along sigh.
Time to face the music.
“Listen, Harley, you’re a grown woman, so I can’t arm wrestle you into divulging why last night’s phone call seemed like someone yanked the rug from under your feet.” His nostrils flare. “But, since you’re now my roommate, if there are any threats against you, I need to know.”
I want to tell him the truth, lay my burdens at his feet, but the fear of him slapping a guilty by association label on my forehead has me clamping up.
“There aren’t any threats. The person who called is someone who wanted to catch up.” I shrug. “That’s it.” I pray he can’t see through my bullshit.
His eyes narrow. “So, nothing that person said to you triggered last night’s nightmare?”
Everything that person said contributed to the nightmare. “No.”
He studies me for a long beat.
His phone on the console chimes.
Saved by the bell.
He goes over and picks it up.
“It’s a text from Erik.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Apparently, we’ve made the front page of several celebrity gossip and entertainment sites.”
Thank you, Erik, for giving me a way out.
“I’m on it.” I race to my room, retrieve my phone, and rush back to Kaz’s gym.
“It’s best if you read the headlines,” he says.
My fingers fly on the screen as I do a search.
I read my fave gossip site first.
Just Spotted never disappoints, but I’m stunned at the way they described me. Then, it hits me.
Shit. I’m on Just Spotted’s radar.
Thank God the association between me and my family is a hard one to make. Still, I pray to God they don’t dig deeper.
I do a few more searches.
I burst out laughing at the first result.
‘WAS THAT A SMILE OR WAS KAZ LINDSTR?M PASSING GAS ON ACTIVE KIDS’ RED CARPET?’
“What’s so funny?”
I angle my phone.
He makes a face.
I giggle.
I scroll down some more.
‘KAZ LINDSTR?M STEPS OUT IN STYLE WITH STUNNING, MYSTERY BLONDE AT LAST NIGHT’S ACTIVE KIDS GALA’
Oh my God, the press called me stunning?
I do a little happy dance.
“What?” Kaz frowns.
I show him the headline.
His frown dissipates. “For once, the press got it right. You were stunning last night.”
Be still my beating heart. This man.
I return my attention to my phone.
‘KAZ LINDSTR?M SPOILS NEW GIRLFRIEND WITH IMPRESSIVE COLLECTION OF DESIGNER BLING’
The man totally spoiled me.
‘KAZ LINDSTR?M AND MYSTERY BLONDE—STAND OUT COUPLE AT LAST NIGHT’S ACTIVE KIDS GALA’
I type my ex’s name in the search bar.
‘CHETT FROSTBURG ESCORTED OFF THE PREMISES AFTER NHL PLAYER DISPLAYS AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR AT CHARITY GALA’
‘CHETT FROSTBURG: TALENTED NHL PLAYER. TOO BAD HIS ATTITUDE SUCKS’
I scroll down a little more, and cringe.
‘IS KAZ LINDSTR?M DATING HIS EX-STEPSON’S EX-GIRLFRIEND?’
Okay, that last one makes me come across like a puck bunny.
“What’s the verdict, Harley? Is anybody talking about Chett and me?”
I hand him my phone.
He nods. “It’s not as bad as I expected.”
“It’s not. Are Chett or Devlyn invited to this afternoon’s lunch?”
“That was the one condition I had before I accepted. So, we won’t have to deal with either of them today.”
“Good—”
My phone rings.
Kaz hands it back to me.
I groan when I see the name flashing on my screen.
“Is it the same person who called you last night?”
I shake my head. “It’s my best friend.”
“Why do you look so freaked out?”
Because I’ve been lying to everybody and I’m just waiting for it all to explode in my face. “I’m not freaked out.”
He shoots me a ‘Liar, liar pants on fire’ stare.
My phone stops ringing.
“Do you want to call her back or have breakfast—”
My phone rings again.
“I’ll let you talk to your friend, I’ll head downstairs and get breakfast ready.”
I nod. “I’ll come down soon.”
He shakes his head. “Take your time.”
My phone stops ringing.
I’d rather not have to talk to her for that long. It’s safer that way. “Sure.”
He exits his home gym, and I stare after him. I tilt my head to the side to take a good look at his firm ass, defined legs, and bulging calf muscles.
Ciara calls back.
I accept the video call.
“Are you dating Chett’s ex-stepdad?” Her light brown eyes are huge.
“Well, happy Sunday to you too, bestie.”
“Cut the bullshit, Harley.”
I sigh. “It’s new.”
“New? I don’t care if you’re made of money, no man buys Bvlgari for a woman when the relationship is new.”
I tell her about how Kaz and I reconnected at Grazie Mille, him standing up for me, and my relationship status as fake girlfriend to an All-Star former NHL player, while avoiding telling her said fake boyfriend is my roommate.
She’d have too many questions about my house.
I conclude my story with the crazy events at last night’s gala.
“His ex-wife sounds like a cow,” Ciara says. “That explains why her son is such an asshole.”
I nod.
“I guess she did you a favor when she broke things up between you and her son.”
“I should send her flowers.”
“Dating Kaz is a huge step up from dating Chett,” she says.
“The two men couldn’t be more different.”
She taps her chin. “You say you’re his fake girlfriend, but the way the guy was looking at you in that photo… it wasn’t giving off a smoke and mirrors vibe.”
I can attest to that. “It’s all an act, Ci.” I hesitate. “There’s something else I haven’t told you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Kaz offered me a job as his public relations liaison and social media manager, and I accepted it.”
Ciara frowns. “I gather things didn’t work out with your client. I guess with the economy, going back to being a corporate florist would be too challenging?”
That ship has sailed. “It would be. This is a great opportunity I can really sink my teeth into. And being in charge of getting the word out about his charity would be pretty incredible.”
“In that case, I’m happy for you.” More chin tapping.
“So, you’re in a fake relationship with your new boss who happens to be your ex-boyfriend’s ex-stepdad.
If your story were a romance book, you’d be hitting a lot of juicy tropes––hockey romance, grumpy x sunshine, opposites attract, fake boyfriend, office romance, ex-boyfriend’s stepdad, age gap, forbidden romance. Anything else I’m missing?”
I want to laugh, but my heart sinks at her words.
All romance novels end with a happy ever after. I’m carrying enough baggage to shipwreck the largest cruise liner in the world. A man like Kaz can do so much better.